Fettered Amongst Our Hands
by writergal85
Summary: What would have happened if Jane had returned to Thornfield before the fire, with Bertha still living? The title is taken from my favorite passage in the novel. FINISHED! Thanks for all the reviews!
1. Alice Departs

All characters and references to the original plot of Jane Eyre belong to the genius of Charlotte Bronte. I am only borrowing.

The coach was later than usually, but Alice Fairfax was thankful for it. She had seen over forty years of her life pass at Thornfield Hall and she had little desire to leave now, with master in such trouble– trouble and danger that he would not admit to himself.

He had barely acknowledged her when she came to him a few nights ago requesting leave to tend to her sister in ------shire, suffering from her husband's recent death. Her simple inquiry was met only with a curt nod of the head and a barked request for more brandy. He had drained the bottle again the previous night and would drink himself into a slumber by the dying fire that night as well, waking with the early morning hours when the ashes grew cold to saddle his horse and ride through the moors, searching for her.

He did not speak of her except in dreams. Alice had always been a heavy sleeper, but since the wedding and the unmasking of the "ghost of Thornfield", she had found it hard to sleep unmolested, awakening often in the early morning hours to the master's anguished cries of "Jane! Jane! Jane!"

Despite the fragile friendship she had formed with the young governess, and the good she had done both for the master and for Adele – who had been sent to school mere days after the ill-fated wedding – Alice Fairfax almost wished Jane Eyre had never crossed the threshold of Thornfield Hall, because then she would have never had to leave. The housekeeper knew why Jane had to leave.

Alice had known something of the master's past indiscretions – the mistresses scattered in lavish hotels across Europe, kept in riches and style, and then discarded. After she first learned of Miss Eyre's and the master's impending marriage, she had worried for Jane and tried to warn her. She was so young, but would hear nothing of their differences in age and experience.

But for the master to keep a wife – a lunatic, but a wife nonetheless, bound the laws of holy matrimony – and still attempt to marry another was something Alice Fairfax had never suspected Mr. Rochester to be capable of. The scheme was more characteristic of his late elder brother or father, than of the sensitive, passionate younger son. In all her years caring for the family, she had always felt a strong affinity towards the youngest Rochester. But now she had never been so ashamed for her good master – and astonished that he would go to such horrific lengths to keep Miss Eyre. He was truly a man bewitched; as mad as his imprisoned wife.

Grace Poole remained to care for the unfortunate Mrs. Rochester. It seemed a strange nightmare that such a woman – more creature than human – could carry the Rochester name and be the mistress of Thornfield. Alice had always thought Grace to be an odd, singular sort of person and often quietly wondered why the master kept her around – but it wasn't her place to question. Now she was grateful for Grace's presence, no matter what her predilection for drink. Alice doubted she could care for both Bertha and the master, rapidly spiraling into his own form of insanity. She felt guilty, but was glad to not to have that millstone round her neck.

The coach arrived and she slowly climbed in, age betraying her knees as the man loaded her trunk. Despite her troubles, she was sorry to leave Thornfield, she thought, as the coach started and she watched the stately hall shrink into miniature.

But the Thornfield she had called home had left some weeks ago, along with a certain governess.

She almost fancied she saw Jane's small, cloaked form walking down Hay Lane as they passed – but then, she was old and the Hall's nightmares were enough to entice visions from the soundest of minds.


	2. Jane Returns

**Author's Note:** **Thanks so much for the reviews so far! Keep 'em coming, especially since I'm a little unsure about the ending paragraphs of this chapter.**

I stepped to the roadside to let the carriage pass. It was the same carriage that months ago had borne me away from Thornfield Hall to Whitcross, and then to wandering the never-ending desolate blankness of the moors, until Providence led me to the doorstep of St. John, Diana and Mary. I had sought to escape my past and now here I was, carried back to it. Back to Thornfield. Back to him.

I dared not call him Edward, my dear master – anything less formal than "Mr. Rochester" or "sir" – aloud.

Despite our wondrous connection and that initial flush of longing when I heard his spirit calling out to mine – "Jane! Jane! Jane!" and I answered, "I am coming! Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" – despite the fact that I _had _come, cold reason took over as I approached the great house.

I repeated to myself that I couldn't stay away, for he was mine – and I was his – in every way.

Every way except that which the world would recognize – which God would ordain as true, which I know is right.

The courtyard was unnaturally silent upon my approach. Places once filled with the murmurs of servants, Adele's bright chatter, and most welcome of all, Pilot's bark and the clatter of hooves signifying that _he_ was home – all vanished. Where was Mrs. Fairfax? Sophie? Grace?

A low, guttural moan pierced through the hollow wind like an old memory and I knew at least that there was still one inhabitant at Thornfield Hall. There – her scarf still billowed from the third story window, my first and last warning of the dangers of my only home.

It did not strike me as it used to. The blood-red fabric seemed more worn, tattered, forgotten. She should not be locked up there, I thought, madness or none. I resolved to talk to Edward – make him see reason, awaken his compassionate nature. If he was still here.

I longed to hear the sound of his rich baritone. To have him utter scores upon thousands of fairy names – "Witch! Changeling! Unearthly thing!" And to see his rare smile, the one that reaches his eyes, affirming his love for me.

If he was still here. If he – if he still loved me.

Dear reader, I prayed that he had forgiven me for my abandonment in the night. I could never hope to be his wife. But I hoped he had not forgotten me as a friend.

_There is a girl in the courtyard. I see her approach, while I'm standing in front of the mirror in my red dress. Grace does not see her. She is asleep, after counting gold coins again, and I was glad, for I only get to have my red dress when she is asleep. _

_But now the girl is here and Grace will wake up to fetch the man and things will be as they were before. _

_I cry out for her to stop. She shouldn't be here. It is dangerous. She turns, sees me, I think, but doesn't stop and goes to the gardens. _

_It is bad luck to be here – to be near the man that hates. I have tried to escape before, but he catches me every time. He and Grace always stop me. _

_She, this girl, returns to this prison on her own, when she should go away. I will tell her to go away. _


	3. Looking for Mr Rochester

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews! **

**Janefaerie: I have read Wide Sargasso Sea, but it has been a while. I might take it up again now that you mentioned it. I'm flattered you think my style is similar to Jean Rhys.**

**QuickCookie: I'm glad you liked my depiction of Bertha -- she's tougher to write than Jane, since Bronte doesn't give us her thoughts. I don't think I've decided myself how Bertha feels about Jane. **

**Now for the story...**

I turned from my walk in the gardens to enter the great house. I walked slowly down the familiar halls, now empty and barren. Though I was anxious to see my master, the austerity of my former home tempered my feverish thoughts. I found myself tiptoeing in whispered steps, lest I disturb the silence – a silence that was neither tranquil nor calm, but like my tightly strung nerves, like a bated breath.

I came to the closed door of my old chamber. The room that I had hurried back to the night of that fateful fire, strangely burning with a sensation I did not recognize – but wanted to relive for hours on end. The room where I had sat in cold worry and fear for my master's safety, clutching the kerchief spotted red with his blood, waiting for my help to be summoned. The room where I once stood a pale and anxious bride, smiling naively at the idea of being so close to Edward. I couldn't stop smiling . . .

The room where I lay on the bed not even an hour later, back in my drab Lowood frocks, bride's costume – for it had all been a farce – hung back in the clothes press, while he sat outside the door, pleading for me to come out and listen to him.

I rested my hand on the doorknob, but couldn't bring myself to turn it and open the door.

I didn't have to – it suddenly swung open and I stood face to face with Grace Poole.

_I find the room where he is. She is not with him yet. I am not too late. _

_He sleeps alone in that chair every night. I know, when I come and see him, when he can't see me, when I am close enough to freedom, as close as I am now. _

_He cries like a babe in sleep sometimes. He looks like he's about to cry now. _

_She will come in and comfort him. I will stand in the doorway and stop her, for I must. It is dangerous, too dangerous, for things to be as they once were. _

_Footsteps – Grace is coming! I run out and seek a hiding spot in a nearby chamber. I will find her before she reaches him and tell her. They must not find her before me. _

"Grace!" I gasped, all breath rushing out of me, as I remembered why the wedding hadn't taken place.

Bertha had come to my room before and I wondered with a strange thrill if I was about to meet the bride of Thornfield Hall again.

Grace did not seem surprised to see me, staring at me with the same beady determination that had made me fear her presence before.

"Miss Eyre," she grunted, "I see you have returned."

"Yes." I stated, meeting her cold stare with one I hoped was just as determined.

She seemed to understand and nodded. "The master will be in his study, as usual this time of day."

"Thank you."

I untied my bonnet and cloak, but hesitated before going into the room.

"She's not in there," Grace remarked. "She's somewhere in the hall, but not in there. I've been looking for her. She goes in there, sometimes to– "

She stopped suddenly when I met her gaze.

"The master is in his study," she finished seriously, leaving the room before I could question her.

The study was nearly dark when I entered, the fire having burnt down to cold ashes some time ago. I could barely make out a hunched form in one of the armchairs – Edward, asleep. I approached him slowly. A glass and a nearly empty decanter rested on the table at his elbow. He looked thin, ragged, his face, hollow and hair, a tangled mane. I felt a pang of shame at his obvious suffering, restless nights. Even now he shivered and tossed in an uncomfortable slumber. I picked up an afghan flung across the back of a chair to cover his shivering form.

He woke with a start at the unexpected weight and warmth.

"Who there? Jane?" came his hoarse whisper. His eyes widen frightfully, like a wild man and he clutched at me desperately.

"Jane! Jane! Spectre that you are – please do not leave me just yet, do not vanish – stay and let me pretend for a while."

"Pretend? Why I am real, sir– no spectre or dream – but real, flesh and blood. Here, be comforted," I whispered, taking the cold hand that gripped my arm and pressing it to my lips. His disbelief, his worry brought guilty tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat.

"I see you with clear eyes, but I can scarcely believe it is you, Jane. Janet, come a little closer – let me be sure," he begged in a whisper, standing shakily from the chair and throwing off the coverlet.

"I am here, sir," I said, stepping into his grasping arms. " You need not be afraid. I will not abandon you again. Here, take up the blanket – your hands are freezing. I am sure that you must be the ghost, not I."

"You are all the warmth I need, Janet," he said gruffly, tightening his arms around my waist and pulling me close to bury his face in my hair. I felt his warm tears soak my hair and face, mingling with my own.

A low moan floated into the room from down the hall, breaking the silence of our embrace.


	4. Near Another Friend

_I am caught! Too late! Too late!_

Startled, I remembered my place. I cleared my throat, dashed my tears and attempted to leave his tight embrace, but Mr. Rochester would not release me.

"Is it you? I can scarcely believe it is really you. I searched for day..." he rambled, drifting into incoherence, grasping at me tighter.

"It is I, sir," I stated, firmly – comfortingly, I hoped.

"Are you well? How have you been? Where have you been?" he demanded, his eyes becoming wilder. His grasping hands were clammy and I felt his forehead – it was burning hot.

"I have been well, though, I daresay, you are not. You're shaking and burning up. You've over exerted yourself too quickly. Sit down."

I led him to his chair. He sat down, but clung to my hand like a frightened child.

"Let me go, sir – only for a moment," I reassured him. "I'm going to stoke the fire, then call Leah for a glass of water. You've had enough brandy. Are you hungry? I shall ask for some supper as well, if you like."

"Leah is not here, Jane," he said. "Nor Mrs. Fairfax, or a great deal of the servants."

I turned in concern from stirring the ashes on the hearth. Had they all left after she had been revealed? I felt the weight of my own abandonment grow heavier.

"Adele?" I asked, timidly, not wanting to ask about his – her, yet.

"At school – sent as was planned to be after the wed– " he stopped.

"Who is here?"

"It is only George and Mary now – and Grace," he added, bitingly.

He had no one. I had left him with no one.

"I will call for Mary, sir – you must have something."

Before he could protest, I rang for a servant and Mary appeared. She was not a little surprised to see me, I suppose, but did not remark on it and presently returned with my request of water and a small supper.

Mr. Rochester and I enjoyed most of the meal in a cordial silence. He asked me about my absence repeatedly, and I gave up a brief answer – I had been staying with family.

"But you have no family, Jane," he stated, raising his brow in surprise. I told him I had found them – not elaborating on how, I did not wish to cause him more distress and pain – and described Diana, Mary and St. John and the tale of our discovered connection.

"And yet you leave this family to come back to a foolish old man, who resides in a ruined household, with only a few servants and a lunatic?" he said with a sad smile. "You would leave behind such friends?"

I did not know how I would or could help – only that something had brought me back to Thornfield and that I could not leave until I had figured out why I felt compelled to return. I could stay, as a helpmate and housekeeper, until I figured out what that was. I saw an opening to make my proposition – one that, if it wasn't the answer, would at least put me near him for the present.

"I should like to be near another friend," I replied.

_Grace does not hold me forever and I run. I run back to her and will make her listen. I hope I am not too late!_

"Sir, you cannot care for all this yourself," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

"It is my cross to bear – we were all born to strive and endure, were we not?" he said, repeating words I had told him at our last meeting, not with a little bitterness.

"Friends can help each other to strive and endure," I argued, not ready to give into his despair.

"Help how, Jane? As a nursemaid to a lunatic?" he spat out venomously.

This was the second time he had spoken of her thus. I felt it was not right.

"You should not hate not her so, sir," I said, turning from him. "She cannot help being mad."

He did not reply.

"She does not deserve blame," I said again, staring into the fire. "She should not be despised."

"I have missed you, Jane," I heard him say in a broken whisper.

I turned to him from where I had been staring at the fire in silence for some time. The resigned grief and despair I saw on his face, the dead look in his eyes – the light gone as though his entire world had been engulfed in shadows – tore at my heart like a wild animal.

"I could stay with you, sir – as a friend, to help you, care for you," I said, going to him and taking his outstretched hand, not mentioning Bertha again.

The simple contact sent a curious thrill down my spine and into the pit of my stomach, where it settled uneasily, a tightly wound spring.

"Or, I could find some occupation nearby – perhaps teaching in the village," I continued, looking for distraction of this glorious tension.

But he did not respond, only continued to brush his thumb feather-light and rough across the inside of my wrist, staring at our hands entwined in the dim light.

"I have missed you, my Jane," he whispered again, pulling me still closer, claiming my other hand and looking up at me under drawn brows.

The air grew stifling, heavy. The fire had grown much to hot. I should send for someone to tend it.

But there was no one but me. And him. And her.

"You will not leave again?" His gaze was tender, pleading, inescapable.

"No, sir."


	5. Questions in the Night

_Grace will not get me. She will not get me this time. I will fight. I will bite and scratch. I will win. I must win._

A banshee shriek permeated through the heat and we both glanced upwards.

It was strange to know the real secret behind Thornfield's ghost – to live with it and know it was no spectre, and to share that with my former. I hoped it would be a secret uniting us, rather than creating more barriers between our friendship.

Then, there were footsteps in the hallway and I pulled away, to compose myself. He did the same.

Mary appeared a few moments later and announced that Grace had asked, "for assistance with Mrs. Rochester." The announcement sent a queer chill through my skin, despite the fire, to know her by that name.

"She cannot care for it herself?" he demanded.

"No, sir," Mary replied. "She has gone into the room again, and will not come out."

My master sighed and ran a hand over his eyes.

"All right, I'll see to her," he told the servant. "Mary, will you see that J-Miss Eyre's things are brought in and put in the room across the corridor from mine?"

She acknowledged that she would, then left the room.

"Jane," he whispered to me before following her. "You will not leave?"

"No, sir." I smiled in an attempt to assuage his fears, but his look grew more desperate, his sudden grip on my arm slightly tighter.

"You will stay here?" he demanded.

His look alarmed me. I broke a vow to myself.

"Edward," I promised seriously, looking into his troubled countenance. "I will not leave this room."

I spent some time browsing the shelves of his study, looking at the tomes like old friends, waiting for my Edward to return.

No. He was not my Edward, not then. I might be his Jane, as he had called me moments earlier, but he was not my Edward.

I had done my duty, obeyed my calling. I had come back and had seen him again – knew him to be alive and at Thornfield and now I must pack my things and return to the small life I had made for myself at Moor House.

I had a family now, and means of supporting myself. I should not need him anymore.

But I wanted him still.

Soon I heard footsteps in the hallway – not his. These were softer, lighter, feminine.

Her? I wondered, bracing myself for the entrance of the personage. But it was only Mary, informing me that the master had gone on an errand and would not be likely to return until tomorrow.

I wondered at his strange disappearance and asked, "Is everything all right? Is she – Bertha – is she all right? Is Grace all right?"

Mary looked momentarily startled that I would mention the name of my foil – a blockade to my happiness – so readily and I suppose I should have been more hesitant in my inquiries. But I was glad to finally be able to give her that name.

"Yes, miss, she – they are fine – Mr. Rochester has assured me that they will not bother you tonight. It is another matter." She left the study without elaborating.

I was late and I soon left for my own chamber to prepare for bed. Mary had set me up in the room across fro m Mr. Rochester, rather than my old chamber in a farther corridor, I supposed as protection from Bertha's midnight ravings.

But the change unsettled me and I longed for my old room and old ways. The new surroundings offered little distraction from the long dark hours and I spent most of the night thinking in questions.

Where was Mr. Rochester? What was he about? What other matter, so close to my homecoming, did he have to attend to?

Was it a homecoming? Was this my home?

Had I done the right thing in returning, without reason or occupation to employ me? And choosing to live in the same house as a mad woman, a woman who had tried to injure me at least once before, a woman who was wife to a man I still loved?

Just to be near him, dangerously, exquisitely, painfully near to what I wanted and desired most, but could not have?

Would I – could I – survive another stay at Thornfield Hall?


	6. Keeping House

_I am almost free of Grace when I hear his footsteps in the hallway outside the room._

_But I continue to fight. _

_He cannot come into this room, that is why I ran here – to this plain, little room, where she used to be, everything just as plain and grey as when she left. _

_He does not come after me when I come here. He gives up; he tells Grace to 'take care of it'. I am it._

_He will not even get past the threshold._

_But he does. He strides into the room, tall and dark and cold and grabs my arm, tightly. I stop fighting. _

_It is I who cannot move now. She has come back; I realize it is no longer safe for me here._

_Bertha, he says, calling me by that name, a bad taste in his mouth. Bertha, you will stop now._

_I try to make myself tell him I will not stop, but he is too strong and Grace captures me and pins me to a chair. _

_I cannot run; he blocks the door. _

_And where would I run to? Except the tower. I have no sanctuary. I am spent. I am limp and tired. _

_I cannot tell her to go; I am too weak. She will have to fight and bite and scratch for herself. _

_I let Grace carry me up the stairs to the tower, him following close behind, prepared for me to run. I do not move and he does not move, does not leave even after Grace stokes up the fire again. He stands in the doorway, black and determined, but I do not meet his eyes. I give up and I stare into the fire, long for its warmth and life, though nothing will penetrate this English cold and ice of his. _

_I am exhausted and nearly asleep soon, when I hear him tell Grace he will be leaving for a few days and not to let anybody near the tower. _

I awoke early the next morning, confused by the new surroundings and bed, until I remembered where I was. It was strange to be back at so familiar a place as Thornfield, but in a situation I had scarcely ever imagined before.

What was my situation, exactly? I did not know myself that morning. I was not Miss Eyre, the governess. And I was not the mistress of Thornfield Hall, the wife of Edward Rochester. That title belonged to another.

The thought of another human being, however unstable, locked away, however comfortably, was a niggling worry in my mind.

Was she kept in a proper way? I had been too shocked, too numbed by the initial discovery of Bertha Rochester to notice much of the accommodations in the North Tower during the short time I had been there, but now I wondered if such a prison could possibly be desired. And with all the servants gone, I thought the rest of the Hall must certainly need some looking after as well. As I had no other occupation at the moment, I resolved to spend my first day back at Thornfield making the home as comfortable as possible.

Unable to sleep any longer, I dressed and had a small breakfast before setting about going to each of the rooms to list what needed to be fixed and touched upon. Available help, I knew would be scarce, but Mary and George assured me that they would assist me in my task once they knew of my intentions. With enough perseverance, I was sure the work could be completed in a tolerable amount of time.

Sometime in the afternoon, I came upon the corridor where my old room sat. I confess that I hesitated a moment before going in, remembering what Grace had said to me the evening before – that the mistress sometimes came here. What she did within the room, she had not said, but I wondered if she was within now. I knew she knew the way, as she had visited me the night before –

Steps down the hall made me check my hand on the doorknob. I strained to listen for clues of an intruder.

But it was too quiet now. I chided myself for being so silly and opened the door, entering the chamber before I could lose my nerve.

It was empty, silent and dim, except for a slice of afternoon sun, peeking through the heavy drapes, painting a stripe of golden light across the bed and floor. I went quietly through the room, as if worried of disturbing some resting occupant, softly drawing back the curtains, sending the dust of old lives dancing through the light like fairy beings.

It was damp and would have to be aired out, but much of the room was still in the same neat fashion I had left it – the desk with the chair drawn in, bed smooth and plainly made, clothes press in the corner. I went to it and tried to open the door, but it would not budge. It was locked.

I remembered seeing a lock on the cabinet when I had first been placed in the room as a governess, but I had never been given a key and assumed it must have been lost. With so few and such poor possessions as mine, I did not worry about keeping anything locked away. Nor could I remember leaving anything of particular value behind when I left Thornfield, except –

A sudden flush remembrance rolled over me like a sea and I placed my hand on the cool wood of the door to steady myself. The wedding dress would be in there, and the pearls, lying next to the drab Lowood frocks I had left behind, a peacock among so many doves. I had left everything with the door of the press wide open, advertising my absence. Edward must have ordered the doors locked after I left.

I might use some of my old Lowood frocks. I would get a servant to unlock it later.

I glanced around the room one last time, then left, shutting the door behind me. The task of making that room presentable might be accomplished in another afternoon.

I proceeded to the third story of the house, hoping to glance over some of the rooms in that corridor before dinner. I had climbed the stairs and rounded the corner when Grace appeared with a tray to go down to the kitchens.

"Good afternoon, miss," she greeted me curtly, blocking my entrance to the hall.

But I would not be intimidated by her and returned her greeting with cold politeness.

"Where are you headed to in such a hurry, miss?" she continued, eyeing me suspiciously. "Not to the third floor rooms, to be sure?"

"I was," I returned, meeting her gaze. "I have been going over all the rooms in the house, keeping an inventory of things to be done – without a proper housekeeper, some of the rooms have fallen into disarray. I wanted to check those rooms as well."

"Oh you needn't worry about those rooms, miss. Nobody's ever up there, nor ever was, not even Mrs. Fairfax. Only leads to the North Tower."

I remembered quite plainly where the corridor led, but I was not frightened by the North Tower, nor its ghost any longer. Secrets, no matter how ominous, are no longer terrible when they are no longer secrets.

"Just as well Grace, I would like to check for myself." I went to go past her, but she did not move from my path.

"That wouldn't be wise, miss," she continued, obstinately and did not move.

I could see I would not be able to budge her today and knew I must find another way into the corridor.

"Very well – I will speak to Mr. Rochester about this matter," I said coolly, walking back down the stairs.

My master was back that evening for a late dinner and afterwards he called me to his study. After a few moments of conversation on what I had been doing most of the day, I told him about my difficulty with Grace Poole. His response was not the help I had been looking for.

"No, Jane – Grace is right. You should not worry about that wing of the third floor."

"But sir, no one should be living in such dust and damp, as I have seen in other rooms of the house."

"No one on that corridor lives in dust and damp," he said sullenly. "In fact, I wish you would not trouble yourself so with any of the house. It seems quite a task, even for you, my fairy, to restore Thornfield Hall to its former glory days."

"I do not mind it – in fact, I enjoy it, as Thornfield Hall is my home, the only I have ever known, and I wish to make it comfortable. You do not think me a proper housekeeper, sir?" I teased, trying to draw him out of his melancholy.

It worked. "Oh, I do not doubt your ability to keep a house, Jane," he said, eyes twinkling with mischief. "But I have a proposition for you that may be better suited to your other talents."

"Yes, sir?"

He looked at me, smiling in his typical mysterious manner, firelight throwing shadows across his broad forehead, the bridge of his nose, the hollow planes of his cheek. He looked now as I had imagined him, how I had painted him at Gateshead and at Moor House – only I had never been able to capture his eyes correctly. There was a darkness and a light at constant battle there that no artist's brush nor scribe's pen could have accurately recorded.

The clock struck nine.

"No," he said, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass in the light before drinking it down. "It is late, and will have to wait till tomorrow. Will you be available for a few moments in the afternoon – that is, if you are not too busy using fairy glamour to banish all the cobwebs from the Hall for eternity?"

"I might be able to find some time to spare," I returned. "Though if I do banish all the cobwebs from the Hall for eternity, you can rest assured that magic will have nothing to do with it – my wand shall be only a properly stuffed duster."

"Jane," he said, smile fading into serious lines of worry. " Promise me you won't go into the third floor corridor. It is too dangerous."

I was not afraid, but I could see that he was tense and frightened for my well-being. I took pity on his anxious mind.

"I will not. I promise, sir," I said gravely.

"Must you call me sir, Janet?" There was his look again, the one I could never capture, the one I could never hold.

"Yes sir, I must."


	7. A Proposition

_I asked Grace about the girl again today. She came into the hall, I heard her and rattled the door, but Grace said she would come no more. She wasn't allowed to visit this floor, she said._

_Why? I asked._

_Because of you, she said. This is your hall. This is your place, as mistress of Thornfield._

_I am mistress of Thornfield. Not her. She is not allowed here. And soon she will leave again._

_Where is her place? I asked Grace. She should go back there._

_She does not have a place, Grace said. She is an orphan._

_I should feel sad for her, an orphan with no home._

_But even if she is an orphan, with no home, she should not come to take mine. She will not stay here long. I tell Grace this._

_She looks at me, stares scared and dangerous and says, You shouldn't try anything mistress. You are to stay on this floor. If you do something, master will be angry._

_But I am mistress, I say – why should I stay on this floor? _

_You are safe and content here, Grace says and goes back to her sewing. She does not want to talk about this anymore._

_You do not scare me and neither does he, I tell her, going to the window to watch my scarf float in the wind and imagine it wasn't a cold one. _

_But sometimes, he does scare me, and I know I must keep my plans a secret. I must banish the girl on my own. _

Mr. Rochester called me to his study in the next afternoon, as promised, but he was not alone. Seated rather stiffly in a chair across from his, was a thin and reedy man, dressed all in black, clutching his hat. He was pale – pale hair, pale freckled skin, pale eyes – so pale that he looked jaundiced and sickly. Both men stood as I entered the room.

"Miss Eyre," my master said, addressing me in the old formality in the midst of company. "This is Mr. Howard. He is the new curate at the church in town."

I curtsied and wondered silently if Mr. Howard had been told by the old curate of the circumstances of the relationship between me and Mr. Rochester. The past, the bliss, the severed cords, the snapped bonds.

But if the curate knew anything, he was discreet and made no indication of knowing it when he returned my greeting.

"Mr. Howard wrote me several times in the weeks before his arrival and came to see me a few days ago, when he came to town. He wishes to start a village school for boys and girls at the church. He has been most insistent about it," Mr. Rochester grimaced with annoyance as he spoke of the curate's persistence.

But the man merely nodded solemnly at the explanation, before adding in a quiet and unhurried tone, "The children of the poor must strive to better themselves. And it is the duty of those more fortunate to see that they have the means to."

I offered a small smile in agreement, but before I could speak on the matter, Mr. Rochester cut in.

"Until now," he continued. "Mr. Howard had not been able to find a suitable teacher for the girls and had asked for my further assistance.

"I think that you, Miss Eyre, will do splendidly."

"Me, sir?" I said, quite surprised.

"She has recently returned from visiting family, Mr. Howard," my master continued, as if uninterrupted. "She was governess to my ward, Adele, before she was sent to school and is in need of a suitable position."

And what were my thoughts on this proposition, reader? If I had any, it wouldn't have mattered, for the men continued to speak on the particulars of the arrangement as if I were not vital to their scheme at all. I was astonished and a little offended that such a path had been readily laid out and planned for so quickly, without a word of consultation from me. I was about to usurp my station and demand the right to speak on the matter, when Mr. Howard spoke again.

"If you think she is capable, Mr. Rochester," he said, surveying me up and down, lip curled in criticism.

I resolved to question my master about his plans later; now I stood tall, dignified and strong to prove Mr. Howard's worries about my qualifications wrong.

"I am a hard worker, sir and have managed a classroom in a village school before – in Morton," I said, referring to my time spent with St. John, Diana and Mary.

"You will teach the ways of the church?" he said, reminding me a little too much of Mr. Brocklehurst.

"Yes, of course," I agreed. "As long as those teachings do not include beatings. And enough food is provided for dinner."

The curate looked momentarily shocked at my insolent reply and turned to Mr. Rochester for help, but was dismissed.

"Oh, yes of course, Miss Eyre," my master said, glancing at his pocket watch. "We will work out more details of the arrangement later. Just now I have some other business attend to with Mr. Howard."

I curtsied and made my way back to the old schoolroom to watch at the window for the curate to leave. After a quarter of an hour later, I saw his corpse-like form alight, stiff and awkward, into a carriage in the courtyard. Mr. Rochester waved him off, then walked towards the gardens.

I waited a prudent amount of time, then took to the gardens myself in the appearance of taking a stroll, to look for Mr. Rochester and ease my curiosity.

I found him near the lightning-struck chestnut, fingering an unsmoked cigar.

If he sensed I was near, he did not immediately acknowledge my presence, as I stood, pretending to look over the last of the fading summer blossoms. It would be winter soon, and the plants would curl unto themselves, shut off from the world.

"You know this tree amazes me, Janet. It was the first tree planted in the garden after Thornfield Hall was built, you know."

"Truly, sir?" I said, abandoning my pretense of looking at the flowers and going over to him.

"Yes," he continued. "And though it has aged, it has always stood tall through the years and winds and storms. Even a lightning blast does not strike it down. It will not die."

"It is strong and stubborn, sir," I replied. "It refuses to."

"But for how long, I wonder, Jane? See the branches, up there," he said, pointing to the tree's top. "See how there are few leaves, yellowed and sickly and the limbs are blacker than the rest – blighted? I do not think it will last."

"It is only one branch sir – a mild disease – it might be gotten over yet."

"Yes, yes, you may be right," he said, nodding in agreement. "You might hold nature lessons here for your eager pupils, in the spring?"

"I wish you had spoken to me about this before committing me to Mr. Howard's service," I said, irritated, but slightly relieved to have an occupation, with a proper place.

"But we did speak about it, Jane," he said. "The first night – when you returned to me."

I had mentioned it, reader, but I hadn't thought the scheme through. In truth, I hadn't thought anything through that night – I had submitted to my childhood passionate nature still lurking inside me and did not stop to think about the rational dangers and complications it might lead me to.

"Are you angry with me, Jane? You needn't take the position if you are angry," he continued, looming closer, looking tender. "I would have told you, but I had to act quickly – the curate was already considering looking elsewhere."

I could not stay mad at him – not when he looked like that, so concerned that he had caused me pain.

But I was still wary and curious about one thing in particular.

"Does Mr. Howard know about B– "

"He knows nothing of what has transpired here at the Hall in the previous months," he cut off my reply sharply, not allowing me to speak her name.

So he knew nothing of my and Mr. Rochester's... old association.

"There is an empty cottage near the church," he said. "You could reside there. It is not far."

This idea shocked me more than the sudden appearance of Mr. Howard – I had assumed I would continue to live at Thornfield Hall, near my master and the sudden idea of severing such a bond brought a painful tightness to my throat.

"Might I remain at Thornfield, sir?" I asked quietly, unable to see his expression as he had turned away from me again. He did not reply.

"You said, it was not far and Mr. Howard– "

"No Jane – he may come to know too easily already. You must leave by the end of the week."

So soon? My mind swam and I felt unsteady and dizzy, but my eyes were dry, parched, almost painfully so. I had shed too many tears in this garden already.

"It could be dangerous," he insisted softly. Desperate for something to focus on, I watched him, watched his gaze go to the third story ramparts, where a scarlet scarf fluttered in the breeze.

This would not do. I took a deep breath and calmed myself before speaking.

"Who will care for you?" I pleaded my cause one last time, though I knew I was losing.

"I shall manage, Janet," he returned, smirking again.

I could see there was no persuading him to let me stay at the hall.

"I will come to see you every day, whether you admit me into your presence or not," I said.

"I should wonder if you did not come, Jane – and I would never refuse you."

"The church is not so far," I said, after a few moments of silence, gazing toward the hill where it stood, a small gray box.

"It is not Ireland," he said, finally turning towards me, a mixture of mirth and melancholy in his eyes. I knew that expression. It was the same one I had replayed over and over again in my memory since he had last mentioned that island to me, standing in this garden.

Then, I did not know the reason for the sadness. Now I knew the secrets, but I still did not understand.

"No sir, it is not."


	8. Exploring Thornfield

I went into town the following day to talk further with Mr. Howard about the school lessons and his expectations.

After a brief conversation, I found he was not like Mr. Brocklehurst at all, though perhaps a little too stern. He reminded me of St. John, and I told him so.

"Your cousin?"

"Yes. We taught together, while I was living with him and his sisters in -----shire."

He hesitated as if he wanted to ask me something.

"Forgive me for my forwardness, Miss Eyre, – I should have brought the subject up with you yesterday – but if you had a position as a teacher, among family, why did you leave?"

His curiosity seemed naive, genuine and without malice. Still, I did not want to cause trouble for Mr. Rochester and the other inhabitants Thornfield Hall.

"I fear I left Thornfield in quite a hurry – there was a family matter," I said, not mentioning which family it involved. "And I wished to return and see that no harm had been done to my previous pupil."

"The little French girl?"

"Yes – Adele," I said. "And St. John is to go to India soon, as a missionary. And his two sisters will be married soon enough, I should think. There is no family for me at Moor House any longer. Thornfield Hall is all I know as home."

He rested the tips of his fingers together, contemplating deeply on what I had told him, before speaking.

"I do not think you will stay long, Miss Eyre," he said.

I was astonished at his pronouncement and sought to prove my faithfulness to the task.

"Oh, but I give you my word, Mr. Howard. I mean to stay. I told you. I have no family now, save those who have been good to me at Thornfield Hall."

His expression did not change, nor did he speak, so I continued my plea.

"I will stay on as a teacher – I am and will be a good teacher to whatever pupils you would show me. If you don't believe me, ask Mr. Rochester."

"Forgive me, Miss Eyre, but I do not quite trust Mr. Rochester."

His quiet boldness shocked me, but I did not give up.

"Then write to Moor House," I said. "Someone there will be able to provide satisfactory references – you would trust them, family to a clergyman?"

His eyes widened and I saw that now I had shocked him.

"Very well," he said, cool manner returning. "I will write to this place and employ you on trial as a teacher – only because, as benefactor, Mr. Rochester's wishes must be obeyed," he added with disdain.

"Thank you, sir." I left the curate's cottage and began the walk back to Thornfield, mulling over the afternoon's conversation. Mr. Howard did not give many of his thoughts away, and I knew that pleasing him would be no easy task.

_It is silent, all silence. They have all left, I think._

_She is not here, I know that. I saw her leave early this morning, like she has every morning now for some time – through the garden paths, by the old tree, always walking briskly, with that quick, queer step of hers, up over the hill, until I can no longer see her._

_The first time she left I thought it was forever again; I thought I had banished her, simply through my dark wishes in the night. I woke Grace in my excitement, but she wasn't happy like I was._

_Go back and let me sleep, she said._

_I explained that the girl had gone again, but Grace only snorted, like a pig._

_She'll be back, she said. She's only going for the day, to the church cottage to set up house._

_So she will leave? I said, my excitement in my power growing. She will leave and live there._

_Grace nodded. She'll be back for frequent visits though, I suspect, she said. She laughed again, as if she knew something I did not. I grew angry and went to sulk in bed. _

_Grace is asleep now. _

_Below stairs is quiet._

_My door is unlocked and it swings open silently when I turn the knob._

_Today, I will be mistress of Thornfield. I must see to my house._

_I put my warmest shawl over my nightdress – for it is cold now – and go downstairs._

_After I reach the bottom of the stairs, I begin to tiptoe at first, until I see there really isn't anyone here._

_Soon I am walking, striding, sweeping down the halls. The halls of my house, where I am mistress. No one else._

_I go into one of his rooms first, and no one is there – just books, his dead things. He likes dead, silent things and keeps them behind bits of glass, so he can look at them whenever he wants._

_I remember once, long ago, before England and the tower and her, he caught a butterfly, a blue one and kept it in a jar to show me._

_Look Bertha, he said. Look at it._

_I looked, but I did not want to see it, to watch it flap its wings and throw itself against the glass, with soft little thumps._

_Let it out, I begged. But he would not and it began to fly slower and slower and thump softer and softer against the sides of the jar, until it did not fight anymore._

_When it was dead, he pinned it to a piece of paper and put it in a case, behind more glass._

_I look for it now, and see it, among many others, dead, trapped things, pinned by their wings – for study, he says._

_I bet she helps him catch them now, for study. She is fond of study._

_I go to her room next. It is not far from his, just down the hall, so he can hear her come and go. She does not have a Grace to tell him of her comings and goings – yet._

_There is nothing in this room, not like his, full of things. Even after she has come back, there is nothing in the room. It is like she does not even live here – and I imagine that she does not, for now. _

_She does not have many things. She will not take things from him, Grace says. _

_He is not here to find me in this room where I shouldn't be. I take advantage of his absence and begin to look around, to look for her secrets. _

_The desk is locked. But the clothes press is not. It has always been locked against me before, as many things he values in the house have, but she must have had it opened. I open one of the doors._

_I don't know why it was ever kept locked. There is nothing fine or grand inside, a few gray mouse dresses, like she always wears and a white nightdress._

_But I see something else white too, in the far corner and I open the other door to get a better look._

_It is a white dress, plain, like the others, but of finer fabric, and better stitching. I have seen it somewhere before – seen her wear it, I know – but I do not know where she would wear such a fine dress. I run a hand over the skirt. It is not so fine as my dresses, but it is soft, light and pretty. I shall try it on._

_Something else falls at my feet when I reach for the dress. _

_Pearls, a single strand. _

_So she is not completely without ornament. I pick up the strand and run the cool, slippery length through my fingers. I have finer necklaces, but these simple jewels I will wear these too, now._

_Jane?_

_I hear his voice outside the door._

_He must not see me. He will be angry if he sees me here._

_I ball up the pearls in my fist and look for an escape._

_But it is too late. He comes into the room and sees me._

_Bertha?, he says. He is angry – I can see his eyes flash with the fire of it. _

_I am not afraid; I am no stranger to fire._

_Bertha, he says, coming towards me, grabbing my arm. You should not be here. You should never be here._

_I struggle against him, to tell him that I will go where I please, you cannot lock up the mistress of Thornfield. _

_You have made me mistress of Thornfield._

_But he does not listen._

_Where is Grace?, he says, twisting my elbow, so I cannot move from him. You are going back upstairs. He tugs at me again. What is in your hand? Show me._

_I do not show him. I found them. They are mine._

_I see him look at the open door of the clothes press, then again sharply at me. _

_Show me, Bertha, he says, pushing me against the wall so I cannot move, using his free hand to peel back the fingers of mine, one by one, until I drop the pearls. They make a small insignificant sound hitting the floor, like fingernails on marble._

_He sees them, reaches for them, lets go of me. _

_I run. I run back to the tower, back to Grace, away from him and his cooling anger._

_Grace does not stir as I slip quietly back into bed. I roll over and wait for sleep._


	9. A Conversation with Grace

It only took a few days to set up the school house and lodging near the church. During the interim, I saw very little of Mr. Rochester. He was frequently taken away on business in town and I was often at the schoolhouse, preparing lessons. There were times when we would pass in the hall and exchange a few words. A few words were all I could manage, for with a mere word or a half-smile, I would find myself slipping into the glorious habit of being his companion again.

Then a moan would come from the third story or Grace would appear.

His wife's presence permeated the hall like a ghostly wind, much like it always had – only now I recognized it. Often I welcomed the chill it brought, for it cleared the tension I often felt in Edward's company now. I was avoiding goodbyes. I was sure he was doing the same, rarely meeting my eyes and answering questions in such gruff monosyllabic tones as I had not experienced since our first meeting. I was both grateful for and bitter against her phantom.

Soon it was my last night at Thornfield. After coming in from a garden stroll, I went to meet Mr. Rochester in the drawing room, for I knew I could not avoid saying goodbye any longer. I could not, would not, slip into the night without a word this time.

But he was not there.

I sat by the fire, sketching for a few moments, waiting for him to come.

Presently, as the clock struck eight, someone did come, but it was not Mr. Rochester, or even George or Mary. It was Grace.

She was stone-faced, looking at me in her singular way, as I acknowledged her. After a silent moment of regarding me, as one might look at something unworthy, she spoke.

"The master wished me to come and tell you he will be later tonight than expected. An incident has come up with Mrs. Rochester and he has had to call the doctor. He will not be long."

"Oh – what sort of incident, Grace?" I inquired, worried. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes miss," she said with little to assure me in her voice. "You needn't trouble yourself."

She curtsied and turned to leave the room. I had gone back to my drawing materials when she turned to me again.

"Why did you come back to Thornfield, miss?" she asked, glaring at me shrewdly. I was taken aback by her question, but answered clearly.

"I felt I had to Grace." I met her stare with what I hoped was boldness. She continued to survey me with suspicion.

"You had to?"

"Yes," I said, hoping to relieve her of thoughts that I had come to beg. "Believe me, I have no intention of being a burden to this household – I will teach, have my own cottage and earn my keep. I shall take nothing from the master of the house."

"And the mistress?"

I started at her question. I had momentarily forgotten Bertha.

"I shall take nothing from her either, Grace," I said quietly. "Though it is really not your place to ask."

"Forgive me, miss, I spoke out of turn," She lowered her eyes. "I will leave you now."

But she would not leave yet, not while I had questions of my own, my own curiosity to satisfy.

"What exactly is wrong with Mrs. Rochester, Grace?"

"I am not a doctor, Miss, I'm sure I don't know," she said, speaking in an uncharacteristically humble tone.

"But you care for her – what, in your opinion, is wrong?"

The woman regarded me seriously and silently, and for a moment I thought she would take me into her confidence, tell me her secrets, tell me the truth.

But when she answered, it was only to confuse me further.

"She does not care for the master or for marriage much, miss, and often thinks of other places," Grace said. "There is nothing much wrong with her beyond that."

"Then why – "

"Because she is mistress of Thornfield. This is her place," Grace answered, cutting off my question. "I must go tend to her now." With a final curtsy, she left the room.

I continued to sit in the drawing room, but did not sketch, instead pondering over my interview with the queer servant.

Bertha Rochester was mistress of Thornfield, because she was married to the master of Thornfield. Together, they had had a life years before me – a life I knew little of. Perhaps, there had been love in the beginning. I had never loved before Edward, but I knew that was not the case for him. Perhaps, he still cared for her, even if only a little, enough to keep her out of harm's way. Bertha, in her state now, would certainly never survive on her own, without means of support from the Rochester fortune. I wondered if she might have injured herself tonight and hoped the doctor would be able to help.

Presently, the clock struck nine and Mr. Rochester still had not come down. I was tired and had quite a day to look forward to tomorrow. I was sorry I had not seen Edward on my last night and resolved, as I left the drawing room for my own chamber, to call upon the master of Thornfield as soon as I had a free moment.


	10. Pearls

_The door opens and I hear his heavy step on the floor. _

_Grace has gone. It is just me and him. I curl up tighter in bed, feign sleep, and do not look at him._

_Bertha, he says, Bertha, look at me._

_I do not turn to him. He will leave soon and go away. That is the way of things – he will give up and go to her. _

_Bertha, I hear him say again, as he sits down in a chair near me. Bertha, I know you are not asleep. _

_But I am asleep. I will be asleep, once he leaves me._

_Bertha, I hear him say as he pulls back the coverlet on my bed. Bertha, get up. _

_I do not move. I do not even shiver, though I am cold, with little fire in the grate and no blankets._

_Bertha – he grasps my arm, tugs me out of bed, pulls me to my dressing table, forces me into the chair. Come Bertha, try on the pearls. Don't you want to try on the pearls? _

_I look at my reflection in the mirror. White face, white hands and white gown in the darkness of the room. I cannot see his reflection – as he is dark and fades and blends into the shadows so well – but I know he is there. I hear his voice, his sweet, sibilant whisper._

_Here Bertha, here are the pearls._

_I see them, a string of gleaming snowdrops, sliding bead by bead out of his black hand. _

_I will help you try them on. Let me put them on you._

_The way he says it, with that boyish grin, reminds me of us, younger and far away from here. For a moment, he steps out of his shadows and I have a vision of him, behind me in the mirror where he used to stand, watching me dress, in a sunnier, warmer long ago. _

_He comes up behind me with the pearls, like he always would, with that secret smile he has just before he gives me a present. _

_He holds them delicately between two fingers and lays them, cool and smooth against my flushed skin._

_They look well on you Bertha, he says, resting his icy hands on my neck. The man in the mirror bends and lightly kisses my cheek, my neck, with cold lips. _

_Come now Bertha, he mumbles against my skin, lips sliding lower, down to my shoulder, a finger tracing my collarbone, a hand slipping under the neckline of my dress. _

_I smile at our intertwined reflections in the mirror, dark and light and I finger the gleaming jewels on my neck. I have won._

_He lifts his head from my neck, smiles, showing gleaming white teeth, like the pearls._

_Come, he says, hand slipping still lower down my dress, squeezing me painfully. Let's take those off now._

_But these are my pearls. I do not want to take them off. I smile and shake my head no._

_Come Bertha, take them off, he says, moving his hands back up to my neck._

_I stop them, tell him no. I want to keep them on._

_His smile grows wider, his teeth suddenly sharper at my insistence._

_Bertha, he hisses._

_He pulls, hard ,at the snowy chain around my neck and I gasp for breath as I feel every hard round drop burrow into my neck. I claw at the chain and at his hands, but it does not break and he does not move, except to pull harder and smile wider, until I cannot breathe. _

I did not have to pay a visit to Thornfield to see my old master, as he came to see me the next morning before I left to take up permanent residence at the teacher's cottage.

"I know we promised no long goodbyes, Janet, but since I was unavoidably detained yesterday, I hoped I might accompany you on the walk to the church," he said gruffly. I agreed, eager for his company, if only for a little while longer.

It was a tolerable walk, but a pleasant one in the good weather this morning. We strolled leisurely, close but never touching. I noticed it was a different, longer route than we had taken on previous trips – one trip in particular that still made me shiver. This time we both wished to prolong the journey, I suppose.

As we approached the graveyard, and wove our way through the rows of stones, I was unavoidably reminded of Helen.

The thought of my lost childhood friend, combined with the approaching loss of another just as dear, made me increasingly agitated and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. I should not be violent, passionate and distressed; it would do me no good, to prolong the inevitable with tears.

"What's wrong, Jane?" Mr. Rochester said, noticing my silence.

"It is nothing, sir," I said. "Only let's continue to the cottage, for it is cold here."

I thought perhaps he would press the issue, insist on knowing my true feelings, as he had before. But he did not and continued to walk towards the house, speaking as he went.

"Yes, I do not favor this place much either – all the ghosts of the Rochester clan looming down upon me – it offers too many reminders of the past, with only darkness ahead."

I followed his gaze to a dim corner of the cemetery, where the great stone tomb of the Rochesters stood alone and imposing.

"Is that where your father and mother rest?" I asked.

"Yes – And my brother. And one day, I suppose, myself," he answered, smiling grimly.

"Surely not for a long time, though," I said, striving to lift him out of his depressed mood, though my own was just as sad. "You are still quite a young man."

"A youngish man, Jane," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "And not entirely ignored by the struggles of life, as you will remember."

"You must not dwell on them so," I said, growing increasingly distressed at his dispirited mood. "You must promise me that you will not fall into a melancholia and take proper care of yourself – else I will not be able to rest!"

"Jane, dearest, don't cry – here, take my handkerchief, dry your eyes. There, be calm."

I took it and strove to compose myself. As I wiped my eyes with the silken fabric, I noticed something glinting in the grass. I suppose it had fallen out of his pocket when he pulled out the handkerchief and I bent to pick it up.

It was a string of pearls. My wedding pearls.

"I thought I left these in the clothes press," I said, fingering the jewels, concentrating on their sheen and keeping my voice calm and steady. "Why do you have them now?"

"I wanted you to have them – they are yours," he said, not looking at me. "You did not take them with you the last time."

They weren't mine to take then. They still weren't mine; they belonged to a girl bride, an innocent that no longer existed.

"I should have no use for such ornaments, not as a teacher," I said. I pushed them back into his fist, but it was closed against me.

"Nor should I, my fairy – what do you propose I do with them? Drape them about my waistcoat? Use them in place of a watch-chain?"

"I cannot accept such a fine gift, Mr. Rochester," I said again, firmly.

"Please take them – as a farewell gift, Jane."

He looked anxious, tender, his visage dark and troubled. I did not wish to say goodbye.

"This is not a farewell, sir. I shall be just a short walk from Thornfield, and shall visit often," I said, taking his hand and placing the pearls gently in his palm. " There should not be a parting gift, if we never truly part."

Tears stood in my master's eyes at my pronouncement. "Dear Janet!" he said, swiftly kissing our joined hands. "You are right – we should never truly part, you and I – time and distance could not snap such a bond before; it should not now. I shall keep these pearls – they shall be a kind of cord between you and I, a reminder of such an unbreakable tie."

He was greatly agitated and continued to hold both of my hands, tightly; I did not wish to distress him more and sought to lighten the conversation.

"When I am not at Thornfield," I chided. "You will not frighten the servants with your changeable moods?"

"Moods?" he barked, tossing away my hands. "I am and always have been a gentleman of a calm and serious demeanor."

"Ah, so you have only been play acting at your distress and anger? I shall have to tell Mary not to coddle you, if it is merely a ruse. I fear she is quite worried, and now without good reason. "

"Is she worried?" he said, genuinely concerned.

"She fears you will fall into a melancholia again – that you are burdened by your w- your troubles."

"Well I shall try to bear my troubles more gallantly," he said, grim expression returning.

We were at the cottage door. If I was going to sate my curiosity, I had better ask him now.

I began, "Grace has told me –

"What has Grace told you?" he cut me off, his eyes suddenly alert and wild.

I continued calmly, hoping to soothe his expression. "She has told me that there might not be much wrong with Bertha – only that she does not care for her position at the Hall."

"Not much wrong!" he scoffed. "Forgive me, Jane, for not taking the word of a servant woman with a predilection for drink and a mad, dangerous charge! Have you forgotten how she tried to burn me in my bed? How she gravely injured Mason, her own brother? How she nearly attacked you, my darling, flying at you in a rage on the day of our wedding?"

I had remembered these things, but felt there were still answers to be pursued.

"Perhaps she would not resort to such violence if she were not locked away so often," I said softly.

"She has seen several physicians, Jane, all of whom say that keeping her in tight rein is the only answer – though I wish it were not," he said.

"I only worry for your health, sir – I only wish to ease your distress, to lift away your worry, to provide, if I may, some answer to your troubles," I said to soothe him. I knew we must say goodbye soon; it was late in the morning and there was much work to be done at the schoolhouse and at Thornfield.

"I know Jane – and I thank you for it. I do not deserve such a dear and devoted soul mate," he said, clasping my hand one last time.

This time it was my eyes that burned with tears.

"Nor do I, sir. Nor do I."

_It is evening. The sun blazes like my dying candle, sputtering in the cold English wind, until the black winter sky takes over and engulfs the last of the light. There are no stars; only the moon shines and it is too pale and sickly. Its light offers no warmth and I imagine it to be a bleak and hungry landscape there, on the moon. When I stand near the window on these winter nights, I can almost imagine I am there, for the wind is just as icy and the landscape just as foreign. _

_The fire is dying; I wish Grace would attend to it, but she is gone again. With the door secured and locked firmly behind her. _

_I have not been let out of this room since my last expedition into the hall; he has seen to that. But I still carry souvenirs of the trip with me always._

_I sit in front of my dressing room mirror and unbutton the neck of my gown, as I have each night now for a week to look at myself in the moonlight._

_There, just under the high starched neck of my nightdress are eight perfectly round hollows, blotched purple and blue. I touch each one with a fingertip; they are tender, bruised and I wince at the contact._

_I have my string of pearls._

_Of course, Grace does not believe me when I tell her. _

_Nonsense, she says, not looking up from her mending. It's merely marks from your own hands, you selfish thing. Master told me – he tried to take the pearls off you, but you grabbed hold of the chain and wouldn't let go. See how your knuckles fit into each of the marks? He had to call the doctor, he was afraid you injured yourself so badly._

_Devious girl, she says, You did an idiot thing, going after those pearls. _

_Perhaps, I say to my reflection, after Grace has gone to get dinner. The string of pearls was unbreakable. I had known from experience, before I had even put them on, that such chains always were. _


	11. Shelter from the Storm

**Author's Note: I know it's been ages since I posted. I'm sorry. I have no excuse really except, well, I got busy. Lame excuse, right? Anyway, here is a chapter as a kind of apology. **

I began lessons the following day. My pupils – mostly country girls, the daughters of local farmers – were a bright set, eager to learn, though not always the quietest. It took some time to settle the classroom into proper order.

Mr. Howard came by the school each afternoon to monitor my progress with the girls. I felt his scrutinizing eye keenly during each short visit. It appeared he had not heard from Moor House yet, and still doubted my abilities as a teacher, since I did not employ the same methods of discipline as he. I had heard from girls with siblings in Mr. Howard's care that he was a faithful disciple of "spare the rod, spoil the child." The whipping switch held no such place of prestige in my classroom – nor would it ever, no matter how long a trial the curate might require.

Though Mr. Howard might be my new employer, I was determined not to let my old master slip into his former state of despair and loneliness.

I visited Thornfield Hall often during free afternoons and evenings to talk with Mr. Rochester.

The gloom I had encountered when I first saw the hall again had not returned in my absence. Strangely, Bertha also did not make herself known on these visits; indeed, if I had not seen Grace walking to and from the third floor, I would have thought the ghost of Thornfield Hall had left to haunt another. Perhaps my master had instructed the servant to show the poor woman more kindness, as I had implied that she was unhappy, and that had settled her temper greatly.

Now the great house was nothing but bright and busy, if not still a little empty without Adele, Mrs. Fairfax and many of the servants there. But after the quiet of my small cottage, I felt I needed no other company when in Mr. Rochester's presence, for we could gladly and easily fill the hours with conversation.

I kept him apprised of my students' humble progress and he delighted in my tales of their escapades, struggles and triumphs in learning ciphering and practicing penmanship. But he said he wondered whether I was satisfied to teach only basic skills.

"What shall you do with your other talents, Janet? With no one in need of French lessons or instruction in watercolors?" he teased.

"Save them until they are needed," I returned.

"Perhaps you could teach me the finer art of sketching a garden scene or the subtleties of light and shadow."

"You tease, sir – and would have no need for such instruction," I said. "You have an observant, scientific eye and know such things already."

"Sly minx! You direct the conversation where is suits you best, with such flattery and appeals to my vanity! Though 'tis true that I know the science behind such tricks of light and flower blooms. And I can appreciate the glint of the sun off of the deep darkness of turbulent waters or the green glass of a dragonfly's wing. But I cannot capture it. I cannot hold it as you do."

"I do not strive to hold onto it, sir, but to share it for only a little while with others possessing appreciative eyes. Then the scene changes and offers something new to share with kindred spirits such as yourself."

"And for that, I suppose I will have to be grateful, Jane," he said. "I _am _grateful for it. My boorish hands need never attempt to hold an artist's brush while I have your vision – your view of the world to captivate me."

The clock struck seven; we had been sitting too long without keeping track of the hour and I feared I should start walking back to the cottage before it grew later.

But in the delight of our conversation, we had also failed to notice the sky darkening and a storm approaching. It had now begun to rain – no doubt a chilly, icy rain that needles the skin and turns the roads to rivers of mud, such that is usually found on the moors. I worried that it would be impossible for me to leave that night.

"Stay, Jane," Mr. Rochester implored when he saw my distress at the weather. "You'll risk your death in this tempest. I'll have Mary prepare a room."

I was hesitant to spend a night in Thornfield Hall – it felt too familiar, too much like times of the past begging to be vigorously reclaimed for the present.

And I did not trust myself to be able to ignore such desires, especially in the company of Mr. Rochester. With each visit, I already felt myself giving more and more over to him, opening myself to him, and in my mind, becoming fully his – and all the while still wishing I could really be closer to him – just a little closer. His presence had become a heady drug, enticing me into a dreamlike stupor until I did not recognize myself. It always took a majority of the walk home, through the chill and cold of the approaching winter, to render me sober again.

The rain lashed harder at the windows and I thought I heard a moan from upstairs, though it could have been the wind. Mr. Rochester glanced upward, a scowl passing briefly over his shadowy features.

And there was Bertha to think of. Though she had not encroached upon my visits to Thornfield thus far, if I were to stay, would she find me in the night? Would she tolerate my presence?

My master must have noticed my hesitation, because he added, "You shan't be disturbed, by anyone. You can leave at first morning's light if you wish, when the weather is sure to clear."

It was only the night; a night to be spent very much alone, as always, just like in the cottage, I told myself. He was right; it would be foolish to risk my health in the rain. I relented and told him I would stay.

Mary was called and the room near Mr. Rochester's that I had spent previous nights in after my return was prepared.

"Goodnight Jane. You shan't be disturbed." he assured me again, as we prepared to retire for the night.

"Goodnight, sir," I said smiling in return.

I went to my room, but noticed he did not follow to his own chamber, instead walking in the direction of the stairs that led to the third story.

Reminded once again of the secrets of the hall, I locked my door. I had had my fill of secrets.


	12. The Key

_I have been locked in the tower again this afternoon. I hoped that when she left again, that I would be locked in no more. But it is worse than before. Grace does not have keys to steal anymore; nor do the other servants which now appear when Grace leaves for food or to relieve herself. I am never left without a watchman._

_And when she visits, which is often, he comes and locks the tower door with a new key, which he carries in his pocket tied in a corner of his handkerchief with her pearls. When he is not looking, I watch him rubbing the beads and the key between his greedy fingers, like talismans to ward off his evils._

_I suppose they keep his evils at bay for the moment, because he does not approach me again – does not touch me – sometimes does not even enter the room. I only know he has come by the soft click of the turning key, louder than the iron shudder of any prison bars. I wait expectantly for the hour to come when the key will turn again and I will be able to hope at the possibility of freedom._

_But tonight, as a cold wind moans outside and I feel icy rain slip through the cracks in the window casement, the hour of hope is longer in coming. Even Grace notices it. She has not had dinner yet and has been denied strong drink these past days. She grumbles and fidgets at the loss. I am not hungry. I haven't had interest in food for days and leave the trays Grace brings up for me mostly untouched. She picks at one of these plates now, the bread stale, the apple soft, its flesh browning. When I try to talk to her, she snaps at me, so I am silent and sit in front of the mirror, brushing my hair._

_It is dark and I have managed a hundred brush strokes several times over when I hear the click of the key in the lock._

_He comes in the room tonight with heavy swift steps, bringing a dark, chill wind. He whispers something to Grace and she leaves, eager for food and a warm bed._

_He sits in her chair and watches me – his eyes, black pinpoints of hate. I stare back unflinching._

_We sit like this for sometime, husband and wife. It is the longest we have ever spent in a room together since we were married, but we do not speak. After an hour – I suppose it was an hour, for I have no marker of time in my cell – I begin to wonder why he is here and when he will leave._

_I am staying here tonight, Bertha. I will be watching over you, he says, divining my thoughts. You should go to sleep._

_He is tense and surprised when I do not argue with him and instead go to my bed and lie down. But I do not sleep. I plan._

_It is nearly dawn and early, gray light in filtering through my narrow window when I finally hear it – the wheezing snore that says he has fallen asleep. I roll over slowly to check to see if I am right._

_Weak man. His body is slouched in an uncomfortable chair by the dying fire, head lolling, eyes closed, mouth open above a wrinkled and untied cravat. Even Grace at her drunkest was more capable than he in keeping awake and alert throughout the night. I nearly cackle with delight at the sight of him, but stuff my fist into my mouth to keep silent. I must make my way out first; then I can laugh as freely and as often as I like._

_I slowly get out of bed, careful not to let the springs squeak and tiptoe across the cold floorboards to his chair. I circle my prey, once, twice, three times, looking for what I desire. There it is – his handkerchief, one white silken corner peeking out of the pocket of his trousers. If I crouch behind the chair and stick my fingers through the space between the wooden arms and the seat, I can easily grab it._

_Once in position, I tug at it cautiously at first, afraid of disturbing him, but it does not budge. He does not move either, his breathing remaining even in deep sleep. I decide if I give the handkerchief corner one swift pull, it will come out with the key so fast he won't wake up._

_I tug hard and the handkerchief gathers in my hand. But I am too eager, for the key is flying through the air and I grasp with shaking fingers that cannot catch it. I wait for him to wake up at the sound of it hitting the ground._

_But there is no sound. I twist in my uncomfortable crouched position behind him and look for the fallen key. There it is – in the dying coals of the fire, glowing a faint red._

_There is no time to grab a fire poker and digging in the ashes might wake him. I reach in the grate and grab it quickly, biting back a scream as the hot metal sears my fingers._

_My eyes water and stream with tears as I shuffle on light feet to the door. It's only a few steps more and the key is in the lock. I turn it, though the handle is still hot and scorches its image in my palm, but I don't care about burns now –_

_A hand grasps mine tightly, another slams shut the half-open door._

_Bertha!_

_He grasps both of my hands and does not let go._

_Bertha! No! he shouts in my face. His breath is hot and rank and I am peppered with spittle in his rage. You are to stay here!_

_The burn on my hand begins to smart and sting at the friction of his grasp and I twist against it._

_He does not let go, but pushes me farther back into the room. I push back at him and soon we are both shoving, wrestling, back and forth, both trying to lead in a strange savage dance._

_Suddenly, with one great heave, he pushes me onto the bed. Before I can recover, he is on top of me, holding my wrists above my head and pressing down on me with all his weight, so I cannot move, cannot breathe._

_Bertha! he says through clenched teeth, his red face contorted with rage. Don't make me do this!_

_For a moment, I imagine I see something else in his black eyes, now so close – guilt? Frustration? Shame?_

_But before I have time to consider it, the door opens again. There is a gasp, the clatter of china broken on the floor, the swish of skirts and quick light steps running_ away.


	13. Locked Doors

I slept fitfully that night. However, it was not the howling of the wind across the moors that kept me awake, but rather the listening for signs of movement within the hall. At every rattle of the window pane, every creak of the floorboards, every moan of the wind, I started in my bed. I strained to determine the origin of the noises that awoke me – whether they truly came from the tempest outside or from the more sinister residents of the hall.

But my efforts at discernment were in vain, for the day dawned bright and clear, the storm clouds beginning to burn away in the light of a white and harsh autumn sun.

Unable to sleep, I rose, dressed and was out in the garden before breakfast. As I strolled the paths in the early morning light, I was amazed that such a terrible night could leave only dewy lawns and a few broken branches. Even the old chestnut survived unscathed.

I was out longer than I expected to be, for when I returned to the house the sun had risen high in the sky. Coming in through the kitchen, I was met by a very distraught and out of breath Mary.

"Why Mary – whatever is wrong?" I said, leading the sobbing woman to a chair.

After a few deep breaths, she said, "Oh nothing, now Miss – the master is looking for you. You'd better go to him, 'fore he works himself into one of his frightful states." She patted my hand comfortingly and gave me a teary smile, as if I was the one that needed consoling.

He thinks I've left again, I realized. I – who had been shunned and forgotten most of my youth – should have remembered that recollections of such abandonment are never quickly forgotten.

"I will go to him now, Mary. Where is he?"

The woman paled and began shaking again at my question. I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"He – he was in the – the North Tower, last, miss," she finally managed, her voice a quivering whisper.

I left the servant woman by the kitchen fire with a cup of tea. She had barely been able to mention my master and the North Tower. What happened there? For though I knew of Thornfield's ghost now, I did not know what she did alone in her tower.

What had she done?

What had he done, when he'd thought I'd gone?

Surely he would not go after Grace and her charge in my supposed absence?

What had happened the last time, when I had truly gone?

I walked faster down the corridor to the tower.

I came upon him locking the door to the entryway to Bertha's room. Mary had been right; he was pale, his black hair in tangles and I could see that his hands shook as he turned the key in the lock.

Though I was near, he did not notice my appearance and continued muttering to himself in incomprehensible syllables. I touched him cautiously on the shoulder.

He turned suddenly at the contact, the blaze in his eyes turning to a gentler light when he saw me.

"Jane! You're here!"

"I am, sir. I have been for a stroll in the garden this morning – while you, I hear, have been terrorizing servants!" I scolded him lightly, attempting to ease the strain of the situation. "Mary was shaking very violently and near tears, sir."

He hung his head in apology. "I am sorry, Jane. Is she all right?"

"I set her down near the fire with a cup of tea and, I daresay, she is better now. All this fuss over a morning walk – did you think I would leave without saying goodbye?"

"I did not mean to frighten anyone – I only thought the worst I'm afraid. Mary must have thought things had gone bad again," he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

Again? I wondered. Things had been worse than they were the morning I had returned to Thornfield? What sort of rage had I missed in my absence?

"I will go see Mary now and apologize," Mr. Rochester said, before I had a chance to ask about the past.

"Is Bertha well?" was the one question I managed before he left the corridor.

The inquiry stopped him and he turned to me, his face composed into a rehearsed, blank expression that I had rarely seen on him before. It was such a visage as I might have seen on the abusive phantoms of my past – Mr. Brocklehurst, John Reed – but never before on my beloved master. A chill ran up my back and settled, taut and waiting, at the nape of my neck.

"She is tolerably well," he answered briefly, then continued downstairs.

I stood a moment in the hall, staring at the door between myself and her. I place my hand on the knob and turned it, though I knew it would not open. This was one door that was locked to me forever.


	14. An Early Winter

I got breakfast for myself and Mr. Rochester – Mary, being indisposed, and Grace, kept by her duties in the North Tower. With the events of the morning, I set out for the school later than I had intended, and was made later still by the muddy and ruined paths ravaged by the storm.

Mr. Howard had arrived before me and I found my pupils copying out Bible verses on their slates under his stern and watchful eye.

I made to go to the front of the room and resume lessons, but with a cool, stiff nod of his head, he beckoned me outside.

"Where have you been this morning, Miss Eyre? Your pupils arrived to find themselves without a teacher," he admonished me.

Sufficiently humbled, I attempted to explain my situation and apologize.

"Forgive me, sir, but I had come from Thornfield Hall this morning."

"What were you doing at Thornfield Hall at such an early hour, Miss Eyre? I understand that our benefactor, Mr. Rochester, must be kept apprised of our progress, but surely such reports can wait until after the afternoon bell has rung."

"I had been there last night, sir, and was forced to stay the night due to the storm."

He raised a pale eyebrow at my explanation.

"You spend many evenings at Thornfield, do you not, Miss Eyre?"

"I have spent a few evenings there, yes – you have said yourself, that as benefactor, Mr. Rochester must have knowledge of the school."

"Oh, quite true, yes," he said. "Only one might wonder why you feel he requires such visits so often."

I did not care for such intimations from Mr. Howard.

"Mr. Rochester is a former employer of mine and has been a friend, when I had none. I go to Thornfield to consult his opinion on many matters, for I respect it."

He did not reply, though I saw my answer had not satisfied him. He bid me good day and left me to my charges.

Mr. Howard remained distrusting, watching me closely the rest of the week. He arrived early at the school house before lessons began and appeared at my doorway in the afternoons. Under such close watch, I dared not visit Thornfield and arouse more of the curate's suspicions, however strongly I pined for my master's company. By the end of the week, loneliness prompted me to confront Mr. Howard about his scrutiny.

But at the end of that day's lesson, I was surprised to discover that he was not at my doorway.

I waited for a bit, straightening up the classroom and putting away my pupil's meager drawings. I thought he might have been detained by a parishioner and would appear later. But as the sun sank lower and the air grew colder, I saw that he was not coming and I would have to save my courage for another afternoon. I decided to visit Thornfield; it was late, but after many days of not visiting, would not my master be as glad to see me as I was eager to see him?

I hastened towards the great house, eager to make it before nightfall. The air was cold, windy and smelled portentously of ice and snow. I burrowed my hands deeper into my muff and walked quickly against the wind and approaching darkness.

The moon and the sun were at equal positions in the sky, passing each other as one rose and another set. I watched as white pearly moonlight fought desperately against the fire of the sun – for though the day was dying, its light was just as fierce and as brilliant as the last gasps of a dying flame.

This brilliant battle of light, combined with the encroaching purple of the starless winter night, seemed to warn of changes to come and thrill went up my spine at the sight of such a terrible beauty.

I arrived at the great hall just as darkness had swallowed it all and the cold had increased its bitterness.

I handed my cloak and muff to Mary in the kitchen rushing to warm my hands by the fire, before inquiring about the master.

"He is well. He is in the drawing room, with company, miss," Mary said quietly, eyes downcast. She seemed much changed since I had last saw her, now cloaked in what appeared to be a hopeless melancholy.

"Oh – I did not know he was engaged this evening. Is it business matters, Mary? Is everything all right? " I said, concerned with her changed countenance. "Should I not have come?" I was a bit disappointed to have traveled to Thornfield seeking a warm fire and stimulating conversation , only to be turned back into the icy and lonely landscape. But if the master was entertaining company, that must be a sign of his improved spirits and I must take joy from that.

"Oh, no miss. The master said if you were to visit tonight, you were to come to the drawing room, straight away as always." Before I could question the woman further, she curtsied and left the room.

What peculiar behavior is this? I thought as I made my way upstairs. The house was silent, cloaked in its usual solemness and gloom and I found nothing to disturb me in its halls.

Mary had said Mr. Rochester was well. Had something happened to one of the servants? To Grace? Had she – Bertha – had she done something? My step quickened, as my thoughts ran through the perilous schemes such a being could inflict.

I reached the drawing room flushed and out of breath. I made attempts straighten my dress and hair before knocking.

"Come in," Mr. Rochester's deep baritone came from the other side of the door – calm, serious, slightly gruff, as always. You've worked yourself into a flurry over nothing, Jane Eyre, I chided myself, before opening the door and entering the room.

There were three people in the room. My master sat in his usual seat at the fire side, his face turned towards me. Across from him, their backs to me, I saw the forms of two peoples' heads – one a fiery red and the other a silvery pale, but both equally unrecognizable in the half-shadows of the room.

"J- Miss Eyre," my master greeted me, rising from his chair with an unusually grim, tight smile on his face. "It is good you have come tonight."

At the sound of my approach the other two beings in the room rose and turned towards me, the dim light of the fire briefly revealing their personages.

"Good evening, Miss Eyre," said Mr. Howard, bowing stiffly.

But I could not return his greeting, for the appearance of the second man made my breath and blood drain from my body, leaving me as cold and immovable as Lot's wife, turned suddenly to a salt pillar.

"Good evening, Jane," said my cousin, St. John Rivers.


	15. St John's Ultimatum

"Please, Miss Eyre, be seated," I heard Mr. Rochester say, as though from a great distance. The sudden warmth of his voice shook me from my stupor – for, I fear, I had been standing in shocked silence for many moments, not returning the greeting of either man. I went and sat in a low chair next to Mr. Rochester, across from my cousin.

"How are you this evening? ," my master continued to me, in polite efforts to ease the cold tension in the room. "I trust your walk here was not unpleasant?"

"It was the same walk as always," I replied, distantly, my eyes fixed upon St. John as though he were a vision or a trick of the moonlight that would disappear if I turned my head or blinked. But no – he was still there, meeting my scrutinizing eye with his own icy look.

"Though, perhaps a little colder than usual – winter is approaching fast, sir," I added, turning and seeking the warmth of Mr. Rochester's gaze to fight off the chill that St. John's was rapidly creating up my spine.

"I trust you did not catch cold, Jane?" Mr. Rochester said, leaning closer towards me with concern in his glance and voice. I received no such care from either clergyman seated opposite me – only blank stares and silence. "Come – sit closer to the fire," my master continued. "I'll have Mary bring you some tea."

"No, thank you, sir, I am fine," I said, smiling to ease his worry – and my own. I reminded myself that St. John Rivers held no more power over me. I was a woman of independent means; I cared for myself now. I sought to regain my composure.

"How do you do, Mr. Howard?"

He only nodded in reply and sipped his tea.

"How are you, St. John?" I inquired warmly after my cousin.

"I am well, Jane." His reply was stiff, unyielding, but I would not give up yet.

"I am sorry for such a poor welcome – indeed. You had me quite shocked. I thought you would have gone to India by now, surely. Will you accept an embrace from your cousin now?"

I went over to his chair, my arms held out to receive him, but he did not rise – only continuing to stare at me, undisguised shame and embarrassment in his eyes.

"A handshake, then?" I said, my smile faltering. "Take my hand, St. John."

He grasped it loosely; I barely felt his cool fingers on my feverish and clammy skin. I saw he did not wish to prolong the greeting and quickly returned to my chair.

"I had been preparing for the journey," St. John said, addressing Mr. Howard rather than myself. "When I received a letter from Mr. Howard that I felt must be answered."

The letter for references from Moor House, that _I _had requested. I felt myself grow cold and immovable again at the mention of it. I had suggested the letter in my desperation to remain near Edward – would it now be the cause of our separation? What misery had been brought by my own hand?!

Mr. Rochester did not relish this unexpected and cold visit any more than I did.

"You felt obliged to answer it in person?" came his sarcastic reply.

St. John looked at him sharply and replied in a dangerously even tone,

"Yes. I did."

We all sat in silence for a long moment, staring into the fire – each of us, no doubt, lost in these new thoughts that required much contemplation.

I know my own thoughts were nothing but a series of questions about the knowledge possessed by Mr. Rochester's unexpected guests.

What had St. John told Mr. Howard? What would become of Mr. Rochester? Or myself? How soon was I to be separated from the man I loved? How long, before the precious, precarious world we had created for ourselves – a world of two, stretched to include a ghostly third – how long before it was in shambles? For I knew that St. John would not leave Thornfield until he had claimed me to go with him.

"How long will you be staying, St. John?" I asked, struggling to keep a tremble out of my voice.

His answer was unperturbed and victorious.

"Not long, I hope."

"How long, St. John?" I asked again, not caring if Mr. Howard saw my distress, or wondered at my wringing hands; let him put it down to worries over losing a cousin, rather than losing my equal in love and life.

"A few days, Jane," he answered sternly. "A few days at most."

"It may be more than a few days, Mr. Rivers," I heard my master say from across the room. In my distress, I had failed to notice that he had gone to one of the great windows that lined the wall. He was now staring out into the storm, reflections of lightning and shadows of blowing snow falling across his broad square forehead, hollow cheeks and grim mouth.

"You were thinking of staying in the village? The Rochester Arms?" he said, biting down on the words.

"Yes, you are correct – I have no wish to impose upon you or the other inmates of Thornfield Hall," my cousin replied, looking at me sharply as he uttered the last phrase.

"Well, Mr. Rivers, _impose_," my master spat out the words like a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm afraid you must. At least for tonight. 'Tis snowing much too hard for you to make the journey."

"I am of hardy character, sir, and I'm sure Mr. Howard would say the same of himself," St. John said in a voice as chill as the wind outside. Mr. Howard merely nodded his agreement.

"I have no doubts of your character, Mr. Rivers, but I should hardly be a cordial host if I were to send my guests out into the middle of a blizzard, where they might be lost and die," my master replied with barely concealed malice.

I tried a calmer tactic to make my cousin see sense.

"Please, St. John, do stay the night – it has been weeks since our last meeting and it would be a grand opportunity to talk," I pleaded with him. Let him think he had hope of my leaving Thornfield on my own, for now.

My cousin seemed to consider my entreaty, but looked to Mr. Howard for a consultation. I was hurt, but not surprised that St. John considered the opinion of a man he had met hours ago over that of a family member. I was tainted in his eyes.

"Very well, I will stay," he assented.

"We will both stay," Mr. Howard added superfluously.

My master nodded grimly and pulled the bell to call a servant.

Presently, Mary appeared, looking flustered. She did not wait for Mr. Rochester to say what he wanted, but went over to him, whispering frantically in his ear.

I watched as my master's face changed in rapid, flickering shadows of expression – shock, anger, tired frustration, then finally blankness, designed to mask and hide. I knew what such whisperings were about, but St. John and Howard looked nonplused at the exchange.

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Rochester?" Howard inquired. "Is everyone well?"

His curiosity was so naive and genuine, I sensed that the curate could not know about Bertha. My mind quieted a little.

Mr. Rochester, who had been speaking in sharp imperceptible whispers to Mary, turned to the curate with a false air of nonchalance and said, "Only a matter with the servants. If you will follow Mary, Mr. Howard, she will show you to your room. Ja- Miss Eyre, if you would be so kind as to show your cousin to the room on the second floor corridor – you know the house well enough and you can show him the library on your way. Are you fond of reading, Mr. Rivers?"

"Only religious texts."

"Hmmm – well, I'm afraid there are few of those in the Thornfield library. But if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He left, with Mary and Mr. Howard following close behind.

"Come, St. John," I said, anxious to end the ordeal, tired and slightly dizzy from the unexpected meeting. "I will show you to your room."

We made our way silently at first, the candle flame sputtering in the drafty corridor. When we did speak, it was in whispers, as if we were afraid of disturbing the empty rooms.

"You know this hall well, Jane?' St. John said haughtily.

I did not care for what he was implying and told him so – "I was a governess here for nearly a year, St. John and it had changed little since."

"Yes, old houses such as these do not fluctuate or improve – nor do their masters change."

"Mr. Rochester is a fine man, St. John, my friend and a good master," I said, parroting the absent Mrs. Fairfax.

"A fine man who attempts to marry even as he keeps another wife in secret. Have you forgotten his sins against you? His efforts to lead you down the dark path?"

"No. But I have forgiven him. Isn't that what good friends – and good Christians, St. John – are supposed to do? Forgive and guide the lost down the path to goodness and right?"

"I fear it is not Mr. Rochester that is being guided, but you, Jane," he said, in a callous tone that spoke to his sure attitude of righteousness in the matter. "You must realize that he is incapable of reform."

"You do not know him. You do not know that!"

"Does he still keep a wife, locked away? And Howard tells me you visit often, that you associate with such a libertine, despite his devilish behavior."

"Have you told Mr. Howard or other authorities of the past and of Mr. Rochester's marriage? Of Bertha?" I felt myself growing more impassioned and frantic by the moment, wild-eyed, as I had often seen my master look.

St. John merely looked disgusted at my questions.

"No. I have not."

I breathed a sigh of relief – but too soon, for St. John continued.

"And I will not bring attentions to such a scandal– if, when the storm passes, you agree to return to Moor House and then, come to India, as my wife."


	16. Imprisonment

"St. John, you are not serious!"

But my cousin was always serious, and especially so just now.

"I cannot go to India with you," I insisted. "I cannot marry you."

"Why not, Jane? Have you anything to keep you here besides your teaching work, which you might do in India, for a much more deserving number of children?"

"I have friends. I have my life here!" I said, struggling to keep my voice at a discreet whisper.

"You would make new friends – better ones. But it is late – too late to be talking of such an important topic, which you obviously find distressful. I will leave you to think over the matter during the night. I am sure you will see the benefits of such a journey in the morning." He left for his room.

I did not sleep that night, the second time within a fortnight that I had not been able to sleep while at Thornfield Hall. But this time, it was a tempest within rather than the storm outside that kept me awake.

My cruel cousin had left me with no choice. I must leave with him for India as soon as possible or risk the reputation and life of my beloved master. I loved him and I loved Thornfield. I would not see my home torn asunder by disgrace, though leaving it would tear me apart.

I knew to apply to Mr. Rochester for help would be fatal to all the occupants of Thornfield Hall, for he would forsake them all for me. I had no wish to rob others of their home.

No.

I must break off all associations with Thornfield this time, permanently and in such a way that my old love would come to despise me and never think of me again. I must make him believe that I had never loved him; I must make him hate me.

I awoke the next day with a heavy heart and tired eyes. I feared I would not be able to eat much at breakfast; my stomach felt as though I had swallowed a mound of the ice and snow that piled up on my windowsill. But I went downstairs anyway to sit at the meal, for I knew it would be the last I would spend with Mr. Rochester.

I entered to find St. John and Mr. Rochester sitting opposite each other, each silently sizing up the man across from him. Their breakfasts were untouched; it seemed I was not the only one without an appetite this morning.

Still, both men rose to greet me and Mr. Rochester smiled a little at my appearance.

"Ah, Miss Eyre, do join us."

"Thank you, sir, but am I not hungry," I said, wringing my hands in anxiety. Though I did not want to say goodbye, I was eager to have the theatrics of parting finished. I did not look at him, and focused instead on keeping my voice steady, my eyes dry. "I fear I must leave Thornfield today."

"No, you won't."

I expected such stubbornness from him, so I persisted.

"Yes, sir I – "

"Mr. Rochester is right, Jane," St. John interrupted. "We shall not leave today."

I looked up from my hands and was met with anger on the faces of both men – cool, frustrated fury on my cousin's visage, and barely-checked rage mixed with triumph on that of Mr. Rochester.

"The storm last night has made the roads from Thornfield unfit for travel by carriage, I am told," my cousin continued.

"Indeed, Mr. Howard was lucky to make it out – he insisted on visiting an ailing member of the congregation early this morning and left on foot before anyone could stop him," Mr. Rochester said, chuckling wryly.

"Indeed." St. John did not share in his adversary's humor. "Mr. Rochester has insisted that we stay here until the roads are clear."

My cousin obviously did not relish uttering these words, but I could have embraced him gladly for such tidings. Dizzy and speechless with relief, I was only able to manage a quiet remark to Mr. Rochester about "not being too much trouble."

"It would never be too much trouble for you, Jane," he replied, his eyes flickering briefly to the man across the table. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some matters of business to attend to." My master left the room, our hands brushing briefly, each almost unconsciously reaching out for its partner, as he passed me in the doorway.

I took a chair next to my cousin. We ate in silence, for I had nothing to say to him after last night's cruel orders, and he, no doubt, was sulking over his brief defeat.

_There were guests in the house. I heard their strange voices, their unfamiliar steps. There had not been guests. He had not had guests here, except for her, for a while. He does not like company._

_When I awoke from a heavy sleep – I sleep a lot these days – he was there, again in that same chair. I could sense his presence preternaturally before I even opened my eyes. He looked like he had slept there – badly._

_I sat up slowly in bed, smiling, showing him that I did not care that he glowered at me and did not return my good morning, before he left. Let him sulk and stew over his unwanted guests._

_But I do not eat the breakfast Grace brings, nor move to put on any clothes. I have decided I will not eat or wear anything of his, for it is food and clothing given out of necessity, not care or love. He does not care whether I live or die, but I can choose. It is the one choice I have left._

Though Mother Nature prevented St. John from tearing me from my home and my friends, my cousin was determined to starve my love for them. He never left me to myself during the following days, lest I search for my master in order to begin some clandestine affair. St. John had so little faith in my own moral strength that he was sure I had already agreed to marry Mr. Rochester in secret. His imaginings, I think, were far more vivid than reality – for Mr. Rochester and I had never even embraced since my initial return. I knew that it could never be, for as long as his wife lived.

But St. John did not seem to care about the agony that I – and surely Mr. Rochester – suffered in silence, all for the sake of a mad woman down the hall. He was only concerned about returning to the study we had begun at Moor House and began coaching me again in Hindustani.

"You must be prepared for our journey," he insisted.

When I told him I did not wish to go to India, he simply replied, "But you will go, because God wishes it of you. I wish it of you – and you will be my wife."

Fortunately, Mr. Rochester was not near at the time and could not hear St. John's words, for I fear they would have aroused him into a violent untamable passion.

Indeed, when both St. John and Mr. Rochester were in the room, there were no speeches from either party towards the other, leaving me to fill the awkward silences and gaps in conversations.

I would have chastised them both privately for such immature behavior, but, alas, I could only get St. John alone.

When I told him that he might be a little more cordial to his host for putting us both up in such awful weather, he said "that he was thankful and grateful" for the roof over his head, but that it had only been offered out of necessity. He had "nothing to say" and "did not wish to socialize with such a libertine character." He also kept insisting that we would both be leaving Thornfield as soon as the roads were clear enough for a carriage.

Both my cousin and my master watched the weather carefully, but the only view offered by the window panes was one of blinding whiteness.

It was the evening of our second day of seclusion and I was in my room, preparing for bed and taking down my hair. I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Who is it?" I asked, a bit cross, sure that it was St. John checking to make sure I had gone straight to my room after bidding him goodnight.

"Jane," came the reply, not in my cousin's harsh and clipped voice, but in the welcoming baritone of my master. "Open the door."

Forgetting propriety for a moment, I hastened to the door, opened it and ushered him quietly into my chamber.

"Sir, what is it?" I whispered in worry, once the door had been secured behind him.

He smiled weakly. "Nothing, my fairy. I only wished to see you." He looked tired, pale and wan. Being trapped inside the hall's tense atmosphere was taking its toll on him as well.

I smiled, hoping to soothe him. "And I am happy to see you, too, sir. It has been too long since we have been able to speak freely."

"Yes – that insufferable cousin of yours," he grumbled.

"He has spoken to you of his reason for coming here?" I was curious to see how much my cousin had told him that first evening.

"Yes – he means to part us, dear friend – to force you one way, and me another. Do not fear. I will not allow such a man – a hardhearted man, who has never loved, not as I love – to take you from me."

He spoke with the quiet, unperturbed assurance of a man who knows he will triumph. But he did not know my cousin, and I feared I must correct him.

"St. John is a stubborn man – cold, but stubborn. And he will not give in easily."

"Nor do I, Jane."

"He will tell Mr. Howard of the past – of Bertha. You will be thrown into disgrace – or worse."

"I have suffered more at the hands of greater men." He did not look at my face as we spoke, but stared out into the snowstorm whipping at my dark window.

"The storm will not last forever, and then I must go with St. John, " I said, coming up behind him and taking his hand. It was cold. "I could not bear it if you were to suffer disgrace because of me."

He scoffed and flung my hand back at me.

"Oh, it would not be because of you, Jane – but because of my own mistakes, my own past that trails me like a death shroud! Mr. Rivers has made that much clear. You confirm it, by choosing to leave with him."

"He would tell Mr. Howard! And if he did not listen, he would surely go to higher authorities! He would do his best to ruin you – and all of Thornfield!"

"Can you not see that it is already ruined? This hall is the home of a lunatic and a foolish old man!" he argued, his voice having lost its whispering tone. "And you – Jane – the one light in such darkness, purity amid such filth – Do you love me at all?"

"Yes!"

"And yet you would leave me, as you left before!"

"I could not stay!" I cried, choking back tears. His words had stung me to the core of my heart, where guilt over my abandonment still festered, dark and heavy. "It would not have been right!"

"Only you are always worried about such disgrace, Jane – why? Am I that unfit, as I am? Would it sully you to love such a sinner?"

We now stood several feet apart, shouting at each other. Mr. Rochester's face flickered briefly in the light from the window, but then I could not see him. It was like arguing with a shadow.

"I _do_ love you – but what of your wife? What of the wrong you would do her, if I were to stay? She does not deserve it. "

"Do not bring mentions of Bertha into this, Jane," I heard him hiss. "You speak of things you do not know."

But I could not stop. Spitefulness had buried itself in my heart to replace any feelings of tenderness I had at the beginning of the conversation.

"Do you care nothing for her sufferings? Or for mine? Only that we must be kept here, with no choice in the matter! You treat us both as though we were playthings, only to be sometimes cared for!"

I saw his shadow stiffen and I knew that I had hurt him. He turned swiftly on his heel and walked towards the door.

"I suppose that is one of the sermons of your holy and pious husband-to-be," he said. "Indeed, you seem to care more for the feelings and opinions of a cold saint and a feverish lunatic than for me! Perhaps, it is them you love!"

He left the room, slamming the door behind him.


	17. Small Victories

_He usually visits once a day. Either the morning, or the night. He comes to make sure I am still here and still alive. _

_But today, he comes just before dinner and again at tea and again – twice again in the evening. He says nothing each time. He sits in the chair and glowers, brooding. He is not getting what he wants. I smile wider at his misery, but I do not touch him, do not do anything else to provoke him now. I decide that I must be sly, I must be secret and quiet and good if I am to escape. Let them think I am sick, weak and irrational. Let them think that, until I disappear into the night. _

_But before he could come back a final time to lock me in for the night, I had another visitor. A man I did not recognize._

_He was pale, paler than I, even though I have been locked away from true sunlight for so long, my skin has turn yellow and my bones have gone soft. He seemed to glow with paleness – to harbor a white light from within that shown through his skin like moonlight. _

_He entered so quietly, drifting in like a shadow, that I did not hear him and Grace did not wake up. It was not until, while laying in bed, concentrating at counting my breaths and Grace's breaths, that I suddenly noticed that a third person was breathing in the room. _

_I turned my head towards him slowly and watched him from behind a curtain of my hair. _

_He looked timid and frightened, yet powerful. I had seen that look of his once before on the face of a girl who had come to this room._

_I did not fly at him as I had at her, for I did not have the strength. I was determined to languish away._

_I saw him come closer, then stop short when he noticed Grace in the corner. I did not move or laugh or tell him she was asleep. He did not move, but stayed tense and still and ready to sprint away, until Grace let out a giant snore like a bull and turned in her chair away from the fire, still asleep. _

_He let out a barely audible sigh of relief, then came towards me and carefully sat in the chair beside my bed. I watched him watch me, but his face was unreadable. I could not tell whether he was here to harm or help me, so I did nothing._

_I suppose he was satisfied that I was asleep, because after a few moments he relaxed a bit and closed his eyes. He began muttering something like a chant, or a prayer – something I remembered from a long ago childhood, but had not heard in more than 30 years. _

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . _

_He uttered the words with such fervency that I felt compelled to join him. I struggled to move my mouth in recitation of the phrases, but my lips were too chapped and cracked, my tongue too dry. _

_Thy will be done on earth as it is . . . _

_Too tired to fuss, I closed my eyes and moved my fingers over to where I saw his hand resting on the bed. His hand was cool and dry and he did not move it when I squeezed his fingers. His voice hitched at the contact, but he continued . . . _

_forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those . . . _

_I was carried away from the tower, for a brief time, on an undulating sea of whispered prayer._

_When I awoke again, the pale man was gone. _

_When he comes back for the last time that day to lock the door, he asks Grace if I have eaten._

_No sir, she says. She will not eat. She does not look up from her mending as she says this. I am in her charge, but it is of no consequence to her whether I eat or not. She will still be paid and will still be imprisoned with me._

_You must make her eat, Grace, he snaps at her. _

_He is malicious and will keep me alive just so he can keep me. A butterfly, a specimen in a jar, lined up on the shelves of the library. This one I found in the Orient, he tells her, this one in the Mediterranean, this one in the Alps. This one is from the West Indies, he will tell her. _

_But I am no insect. I will escape. Or I will die. _

_I have tried, sir, I hear Grace say. I cannot force her._

_Then I will, he says. He takes a crust of bread from a tray and comes towards me. I force myself forward to meet him. I will not shrink from him, though I am weak. He, who is master of this hall, will not master me._

_Eat Bertha, he says, thrusting the bread to my lips. I resist the urge to bite off his fingers. _

_Eat, he says, pushing the crumbling loaf harder against my mouth. I clench my jaw and stand toe to toe, eye to eye with him. I am as tall as he is. _

_He is surprised, scared of my defiance. He thinks and he waits for me to make the next move, so that he will have a reason to strike me. He would like to hit me. Even now, I can see he is restraining himself from forcing open my mouth and cramming the bread down my throat. _

_But he does not – I suppose he remembers the company he is entertaining downstairs and thinks they might hear something and wonder._

_He tosses the bread into the fire and yells at Grace to clean up the mess. _

_Just before he locks the door, I think that I am winning, by small victories._


	18. Against My Will

For me, it was another sleepless night spent in Thornfield Hall. My heart was in anguish and my pillow was soaked with tears. I came to breakfast the next morning feeling pale and weary and I ate little.

But if St. John noticed my red eyes or had heard the argument between myself and Mr. Rochester the night before, he did not say anything. He only seemed to eat his ham and toast with more relish than he had in the previous days, then left for the study, telling me to come with him.

Mr. Rochester did not come down for the meal.

_I am awoken by the rattle of curtains being pulled back. Someone is making a great deal of noise, I think. It is not only Grace, who even in her drunken stupor, is quiet. And it is not only him, who merely thunders about in the darkness, then leaves. There is another, who moves about in a brisk and hurried manner, buzzing about the room like a mosquito. _

_I open my eyes, wincing as the sunlight from the open windows makes my head throb, and see that the doctor has come this time. _

_They mutter to each other, him and the doctor, but I cannot tell what they are saying. I listen hard, strain my ears so intently that I do not notice that Grace has bound my hands and feet until it is too late. _

_I pull at my bindings, fight, until I almost slip out – but Grace yells for help and he comes. He hits me once, twice, across my jaw – hard, stinging slaps that rattle my teeth and make my head pound harder. Then he walks back to the window, smokes his cigar. _

_I see a bowl of something in the doctor's hands as he approaches my bed. He puts a spoon full of it, gray and lumpy porridge to my mouth. I continue to pull at my bindings and set my jaw closed tight against such ministrations. _

_But Grace comes, strong and, for once, sober. She pries open my mouth, and holds back my tongue and teeth, for the doctor to force the watery mixture down my throat. I sputter and spit it back at him and struggle against my captors. But the doctor only wipes his face and prepares another spoonful._

_I snarl and spit the gruel down my face and nightgown, snort it up my nose and feel it pool on my cheeks and sting my eyes. I pull at my bonds until my wrists and ankles are rubbed raw. But the doctor and Grace continue._

_He does not help them, only stands in a corner of the room, watching, waiting for them to finish. I catch a glimpse of his face once, in between mouthfuls. It is tired and without feeling._

_I hate his unfeeling disinterest, his slouching lazy figure in the corner, and his eyes staring at the toes of his boots and checking the hour on his watch, waiting for his responsibility to be over. This hatred is deep and dark and hot as the tropical summers of childhood. It is burned onto my being like the seared imprint of the attic door key on my palm. _

_When the bowl is empty, they stop. Though most of the porridge was spilt on the bed, my nightgown and my hair, I realize I have swallowed a few mouthfuls against my will. I will purge myself of them later. Grace begins to untie me and wipe off my face. I look up to snarl at my complacent captor, but he has gone. _

After breakfast, I searched the first and second floors of the house for Mr. Rochester, but I could not find him. He was not in his chamber or his study. He could not be in the gardens, as they were buried in insurmountable snowdrifts and ice. Only St. John occupied the library.

I was summoning the courage to defy my master's previous orders and search the third floor, when I saw him coming down the stairs from that corridor, looking distraught and bleary-eyed. My heart softened; he had not had an easy night, either.

"Sir," I greeted him quietly. His eyes grew even wider and wilder as he noticed me; he had not expected me here.

"Jane?" His voice was tired and hoarse. "How do you do this morning?"

"I am well, sir – though you do not look as though you are very well at all. Indeed, you looked positively ill. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes," he said, absently, moving to go past me.

He thinks I am still mad at him, I thought. Though we had quarrelled, it was not worth avoiding each other, particularly when he looked so overwrought. I put a hand on his arm to stop him and kindly asked my question again.

He sighed, as if letting the weight of worlds out in that one breath and sank down onto the steps.

"'Tis Bertha," he muttered after several minutes of silence during which he struggled to compose himself. "She will not eat."

I could see that he was clearly worried about his wife; such concern for a woman who had caused him so much trouble made my heart swell with tenderness and compassion.

I reached down and took both of his hands in mine.

"Have you sent for the doctor? Can anything be done for her?"

"Carter's come and tried," he said, his voice brittle with emotion. "I fear there is nothing that can be done."

He let out a great, shuddering breath. "My God – what has this life become?" he cried, wetting my hands with his tears.

I sank down on the stairs beside him, and pulled him to me, soothing him and letting him weep his sorrows and sufferings out. How could one person cause so much pain?

"Perhaps she will get well yet – you must trust in God and his will," I said, kissing the head that rested on my shoulder.

He lifted his head and looked at me, wonder in his eyes.

"You amaze me, every day, Janet," he said. "How you manage to have such faith and strength – how you show such kindness for a woman who has done nothing but cause you pain!"

"It is not her fault. She should not be blamed – and you should not blame yourself, sir. Some things are not anyone's fault, and cannot be helped." I whispered, averting my eyes from his searching gaze.

But his face was suddenly very close to mine, close enough to see all the delineations of dark and light in his eyes – grays and blacks and browns and umbers and golds. I could count on forever.

"Thank you," he said. Then he kissed me, and I could not form any more words or clever replies – only take in the overpowering presence of him, soft and warm and rough. My body was not my own. Against my will, I closed my eyes; my hands, bewitched by some foreign spirit, pulled his head closer to mine and my fingers wound themselves through his hair. I could not breathe except to breathe in the scent of him – grass and musk and salt and cigar smoke. I was reeling, drowning – yet more alert and alive than I had felt in days.

The unexpected touch of his tongue on my lips brought me back to myself and where I was; I sprang back from the embrace and turned away from him, shocked and ashamed at what I had done.

"I am sorry, Jane," I heard him say in a voice as breathless as my own. I looked at him. His eyes were troubled and repentant, his face still flushed from our kiss; I had a shameful stab of longing to kiss him again. It was too stuffy and cramped here; the air was too heavy. I had to get away.

"Good day, sir," I said quickly, barely curtsying in my efforts to run away and hide my stinging eyes, suddenly wet with tears.


	19. Discovered

Going outside was impossible, so I ran to a drafty portion of the servants' hall, to cool my flushed face in the wind coming through the cracks in the window casements and forget about the kiss.

Yet . . . I could still taste him, and if I closed my eyes, feel him too, my lips and hands tingling from the memory. I remembered how he had looked just after we'd kissed, and I longed to make him look like that again – only replacing the regret with joy. I longed to kiss him with joy and feel no shame due to love.

But this was impossible as long as she was around – as long as Bertha lived.

But she mightn't live for much longer, came a quiet, dark and cool voice in my mind.

I instantly quashed the sinful hope of her demise. No. If I was to remain near Thornfield Hall, I must not think of such things. I must remember my place, or I must go.

_Grace releases my wrists and tugs at my gown to take it off. For once I let her. It is dirty and I am tired._

_She goes to get another gown from the clothes press and I stand naked and shivering in the cold attic. _

_I am still alive and I am still here. Dying, escaping is harder and will take longer than I thought. I vent my frustration at this wait with a few silent tears, which I wipe away quickly in shame. _

_What you crying for? Grace asks as she slips a clean gown over my head. You brought it on yourself, girl. _

_But I suppose she feels some pity for me – having been locked up as well – for she says, I will go get something for your wrists. Stay here._

_She leaves._

_The door is unlocked and I could run. I can escape, so easily. _

_But, as I reach the door and open it, I find the pale man standing there, waiting to come in. _

_He looks startled but tells me hello. I do not return his greeting, but stand there and glare at him and wait for him to leave so that I can go. _

_But he is not intimidated and only stares back._

_I lift my hand to strike him, to push him out of the way, but he does not flinch, does not move to hit me. He does not move at all and I am not strong enough to force him. I am so tired and cry a little more. But this does not matter to him, either. _

_Come, let us sit, he says, coming into the room and closing the door. He goes to the chair by the fire and sits, takes out a book from his pocket. I do not move, but only stare at him. I wonder if I ran if he would try to stop me. He has not done anything to hurt me . . . but I do not know what would happen if he was angry. I am afraid of him, in a way I have never been afraid before. I put my hand on the doorknob._

_Sit, Bertha, he says, looking at me again. _

_I do not move. I cannot. I am paralyzed. So close to freedom and I am paralyzed._

_Come Bertha, he says. He gets up and takes my wrist, his fingers wrapping around the blisters there. I hiss and jerk away, running to a corner before he can capture me fully._

_But the pale man does not move to come after me, not as he would have done. He only looks alarmed, and I stare back equally confused, sucking on my wounds to make the pain go away._

_Grace comes in suddenly. She bats my wrists away from my mouth and scolds me; she does not see him. I wince as she dabs salve on my sore wrists and she clucks her tongue. I watch him watch us from over Grace's broad shoulder._

_How was she injured? he says and Grace spins around so suddenly that she drops the salve pot and it shatters on the floor in a lumpy mess of mashed plants and crockery. I giggle at her confusion and the mess and she boxes my ears._

_You're not supposed to be up here, sir, Grace tells the pale man. She stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. The master does not permit guests on the third floor. You'd best be leaving now._

_How was she injured? he asks again. He stares her down and does not move. _

_Did it to herself, she says._

_I did not! I did not! I want to say – but before I can, he says it for me._

_She did not. She could not. _

_Grace shrugs and moves to clean up the mess at our feet. I scuttle back and around to my bed and sit to watch what the man will do next._

_He reaches into another pocket in his coat, but takes out a small bag instead of a book. It jingles as he sets it on the table beside him._

_Tell me, he says. What has Mr. Rochester done to her?_

_Grace stops from gathering the crockery at her feet and looks at the bag on the table. Her face looks the way it does just before she's about to get another jug of porter. And Grace has not had any strong drink in a long time. She is thirsty._

_She goes over to the table, sits down, leaving the mess on the floor, and begins to talk. He listens, and passes over a coin from the bag every once in a while, which Grace takes. I watch and listen, as she tells him what he wants. It must be better than anything he was reading in that book, because he listens for a long time. I fall asleep and when I wake up, he is gone and Grace is counting her money. _

I sat by the window in the servants' hall for a while, but soon heard the clatter of the cook coming in and knew I would have to finish my grieving in a more private place.

I took solace in the dark and empty library, ensconcing myself on one of the window seats with my escape book, as if I were a ten-year-old child again. If I turned the lamps low and shut the curtains, I could almost believe I was back in my little corner at Gateshead – only this time my imaginative rambles would not be disturbed by anyone – no Aunt Reed, no Eliza or Georgiana, no vicious John.

"Jane?" came a voice, so calm and unexpected that I dropped my book and it clattered to the floor, giving away my hiding place.

The curtains drew back and I saw my cousin standing in front of me.

"Why were you hiding? Who from?" St. John asked.

"No one," I lied. "I just needed to get away for a while. Being shut up in the house for the past few days is beginning to vex me. I wish the garden paths were fit for walking."

"It is too cold and all the paths will be only mud and ice," he said, admonishing me for my fancy. "Look, there – that tree has lost half its branches."

He pointed at the horse chestnut tree – once split by lightning and now ravaged by the ice storm. Its branches, blackened and weak with disease, had snapped and fallen across the path. The trunk of the tree tilted precariously to one side, as if deciding how to fall and suffer the least injury.

"It will have to come down in the spring," St. John continued. "It's too dangerous for a garden, on the edge of toppling like that."

"Yes," I said, though agreeing to such a thing made me sad. Thornfield, once my home, was changing into a place I did not recognize – tree by tree, hour by hour.

I noticed that my cousin looked paler than usual – even a little ill and agitated – and I asked him if everything was all right.

He seemed to consider the question heavily, before saying, "You must leave Thornfield, Jane."

His stubbornness exasperated me, but I still would not kowtow to him.

"I cannot marry you, St. John and go to India. I do not love you."

"What do you know of Mrs. Rochester?"

I had not expected this question. Though I had been living with the daily knowledge of the woman's existence for weeks now, the mention of the wife, moments after an intimate moment with the husband, made me start and flush.

"Only that the poor woman is mad . . . and cannot be helped," I stammered after a few moments.

"Have you never seen her? " my cousin asked pointedly. "Have you seen how she lives?"

When I had last visited her quarters, I had been too shocked at the revelation of such a secret to remember the details of the room or its occupant – only that she had raged against entrapment and flung herself at anyone who might snare her.

"Once," I said. "On the day of the wedding."

My cousin had the courtesy to look momentarily uncomfortable at the mention of that day, but then pressed on.

"I have seen her many times. She is not well."

I was astonished that he had ventured into parts of the estate that I had no knowledge of. But he would go to India to minister; perhaps he considered Bertha only practice for the converting he would do abroad.

"I expect that she is not – she is a lunatic," I said.

"There is more wrong with her than just her mind, Jane. She is sickly, and thin. The rooms in the tower are drafty. The few moments I was there I could see that she shivered with the cold."

"You should tell Mr. Rochester – he does not spend much time in the tower; Bertha is in Grace Poole's care. I am sure he would like to know, so that he may send for the doctor and perhaps move her to another room. He– "

"Mr. Rochester is well aware of Bertha's condition and the state of her rooms," St. John interrupted me. "Missus Poole said he comes frequently during the day and night."

"Well then, perhaps he is trying to help and Bertha is uncooperative," I said. I was grasping at any defense I could think of for Mr. Rochester and for my friendship with him.

"Helping her by imprisoning her? Tying her down so that she may be force-fed rotten porridge? By beating her?" St. John argued.

What madness was he talking of? For what he said could surely not be true – I had seen Mr. Rochester, frustrated and truly sorry that his wife was unwell. My eyes burned hot with angry tears at my cousin's words, but I would not submit in front of him.

"You do not know him St. John – and yet you would blaspheme him – and me, as his friend, with the lies and gossip of servants. I will not – "

"I have seen evidence of his neglect myself! I have seen her wounds – watched her shiver in the cold. It is not lies or servants' gossip, Jane – you would see it for yourself, if you were to visit her."

"I do not need proof," I said, turning to go. I had had quite enough of this battle with my cousin. "I know Mr. Rochester and trust what he says is true. That is faith, St. John. Faith in friends."

"And you and Mr. Rochester are only friends?" I heard him say softly.

I turned and met his probing gaze.

"Yes," I lied, though I knew instantly that he had seen all. My omniscient cousin.

"Friends, who behave as lovers, shamefully, feet from the bedroom of the true wife!" he yelled, his tall frame shaking with frustration and rage. "Such an association – such actions! It is blasphemous and a shame in God's eyes! It is a shame in my eyes!"

He turned from me, straining to control himself. I had not seen him display such anger before – not even when I first left Moor House to return to Thornfield. I reached out to comfort him, but he did not let me. When he looked up again, he was calm and cold – a man of God.

"As a curate, I feel it my duty to warn you against such associations. You would find yourself in danger in this life, and in the company of the devil in the next."

He left the room.


	20. Escape

_I am awakened by the creak of the door. _

_I turn quickly to see who is it, to see if it is him, and I fall out of the armchair where I fell asleep. My head is dizzy and pounding, and my legs and arms ache with stiffness, but at least I am warmer. I see the glow of the fire, the shadow of skirts in the light. _

_It is not him. The feet I see, nearly at level with my eyes, are a woman's – small, in plain boots, disappearing and reappearing from under a grey skirt as she walks, whispering tiny steps, into the room. It is not Grace. _

_Here, she says in a low voice, kneeling to grasp my arm and I see her face. It is her. _

_She grips my other arm too hard, and I snarl and pull away as her fingers come in contact with my injured wrists. She also skitters away – jumps almost to the door – as if she has been hurt, too. _

_We stare at each other from across the room. I take in her grey dress, small figure, plain face. It is a determined face, though, despite her weak chin, mousy hair and pale skin. I resolve to look just as steely as I see her take me in – my soiled nightgown, yellowed skin, long and gangly limbs, bruised face. _

_I see the open door behind her. I could easily push her out of the way. She, who has been a reason for my imprisonment, will be a block to my freedom no longer. _

_I go for the door, but she is quick too, and starts to run. I reach her, grab her arm as tightly as I can. I don't let go and I pull her back into the room, stand in the doorway and block her escape, as I have been blocked in before. She looks up at me, determined again, but I can see that she is also scared of me – of what I will do. I will scare her, show her what to be frightened of, until she runs away from the door. Then I can run away too. _

_I show her my wrist, red and raw, and tell her it was him. But she only looks confused. I pull down the neck of my nightgown, make her put her fingers in the bruises on my neck and my face – him. But she only shies farther away, disgusted. I count my ribs for her and show her older scars, ones from before she came, across my stomach, my hips, my legs, my chest. Him. Him. Him. But she shakes her head no, does not understand. She will not be taught. I scream in frustration. _

_My wail is cut off by a hand, clamped over my mouth from behind. He grabs my waist and pulls me out of her way, into the hallway outside the room. I struggle and bite at his fingers, but he holds fast. _

_Jane!? he says, as she slips past us in the hall, running down the stairs to a freedom that was supposed to be mine. _

_He is distracted by her escape and lets his grip on me loosen. As thin as I have become, I slither out easily and run after her down the stairs. _

_Bertha! he calls out, but I pay no heed. At the foot of the stairs, I do not follow her, but dart around a corner and into the first room. _

_The library. It is dark, but warm; a low fire smolders in the grate. Only a corner of the room is illuminated by the white light of the afternoon sun coming through the open curtains of one window. I dart in between a pair of shelves and hide, careful not to walk too loudly._

_I hear the door open and close and hold my breath. It could just be a servant, or it could be him. I cannot tell. _

_Jane?_

_It is not him. But I know that voice. _

_I peep around the corner of my hiding place and confirm my suspicions – it is the pale man, the one who visited me and murmurs prayers out a book he carries with him now. I let out a sigh of relief._

_He hears me and turns around quickly – too quickly for me to run back to my hiding place._

_Bertha? He is confused. Why are you here?_

_I hear steps out in the hall, I put my finger to my lips and tell him to hush. He can hide with me here for a while, but he must not give us away. Not before we escape._

_I grip his arm and try to lead him to one of the chairs, but he will not come._

_You are sick. You must be in bed, he says speaking loudly and close to my face. You should go back to bed. Do you understand?_

_I grind my teeth in frustration and bite back a scream. I understand! But he does not! I cannot go back there! _

_Come, he says, pulling me back to the door._

_No! I plant my feet firmly in the carpet, so that he cannot budge me. _

_I will call a servant, he says, moving for the door._

_But before he can ruin my plans, I dart in front of him and grab his book out of his hand and run to the fireplace._

_Bertha? What are you doing? he stops and asks, but then he turns again for the door._

_I throw the book into the smoldering fire and watch the dry pages curl and blacken._

_Bertha! I hear him say and look up to see what he will do next. But he does nothing, only looks hurt and sad. I am instantly sorry. _

_But I do not have time for apologies. Grace comes through the door and takes me back upstairs._


	21. Fettered Amongst Our Hands

"_I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved – your harem inmates among the rest. I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred." _

– _Jane Eyre, Chapter XXIV_

I was trapped. I ran down the stairs, ran to get my cloak and bonnet from my room, ran passed Mary and George, ran out the servants' door, ran through the garden to the horse chestnut. Then I stopped, because I could not run any further. I was trapped.

Ice and snow blocked the garden paths. To go back and take another route would mean running into my cousin, or Mr. Rochester, who was possibly close behind me after he and Bertha –

The images of her bruises, her thin, sickly figure and hollow face, floated through my mind. I shut my eyes against the memory, but it only became more vivid and closer. Though I had often protested against her imprisonment, a part of me still thought of her as the monster who had torn my wedding veil and tried to burn us all in our beds. A part of me had agreed with Mr. Rochester. She deserved to be locked away.

But she was only a sick woman. There was no reason to be afraid of her. There were others to fear and to love.

My knees gave out and I sank to the ground next the horse chestnut, leaning against the tree's wet and blackened trunk for support.

The air was crisp with the silence only heavy snows can bring. No birds sang; they had flown south ages ago. I had only visited the garden in the summer months, when moss dotted the paths and insects buzzed lazily to and from each brightly-colored bloom. Watching from the windows of the hall during the winter, it had always appeared to be glittering and pristine under its blanket of ice and snow. But St. John had been right. The paths were muddied, the plants had died and now everything was in a state of decay. The chestnut had seen the worst of the storm; what had appeared from the window to be only branches was actually half of the trunk, scattered in pieces in the snow. It would not last the night. I leaned into the cold, dead flesh of the tree trunk and whispered –

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Jane? Where are you going?"

I turned around and saw Mr. Rochester on the garden path, wrapped in a winter cloak with his head uncovered. He, too, had rushed out in a great hurry.

"You cannot go yet, Janet," he said in a teasing voice. "It is still too cold to go back to the schoolhouse – the ice will melt tomorrow and then you can go back to your pupils."

When he saw that I was not coming, he became more serious and approached me, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. I accepted his help.

"Come Jane – I– come back to the house. There is nothing to fear anymore. Bertha has been confined to her room again. She will not get out. She will not hurt you."

I shook my head no. No. She would not hurt me.

"And I promise that I will not touch you, again. I am sorry for my conduct on the stairs. It was wrong of me – do you forgive me for that?"

I nodded my agreement quickly, while trying to avoid the memory of the kiss – had that only been hours before? – and the violent emotions it had stirred in me.

"Then come inside," he said, tugging gently at my hand.

But I would not.

"Goodbye, Mr. Rochester," I said, extricating my hand from his tight grasp and turning to go.

More swiftly than I had thought possible, he swung around in front of me, blocking my path and pinned me against the trunk of the horse chestnut. His face was inches from mine, but there was no tenderness in his gaze this time – only fierce, passionate anger.

"No – no Jane," he growled through gritted teeth. "You will not leave! You will not leave me again!"

"Let me go!" I tore myself from his grasp, but he came after me just the same. Unable to go far in the deep snow, I flung my arms in front of my face, lest he strike me.

But he did not.

I put down my hands and looked up at his face, crumpled in confusion and hurt.

"Jane – I," he said hoarsely, "I would – I am sorry – but I would never--"

"Bertha."

He came over to me, sat down against the tree trunk as if unaware of the wet snow.

"She brought it upon herself," he said bitterly.

"Edward! How could you be so cruel?" I cried.

He broke down at my reply, for I think up until that moment, he had believed that I had not known.

"Jane, forgive me," he sobbed violently. "I did not mean it . . . I did not know what to do."

"You should care for her," I said.

"Care for such a violent woman?"

"St. John says she--" I began.

"So your cousin has visited her, too?" he scoffed, clenching his fists to remain calm. "And has he, your pious, handsome preacher, been able to make her eat? To stop her from stealing? To keep her from injuring herself and others? Has he made her see the light of God? The great power of the Almighty?"

He paused, struggling to catch his breath in the icy air.

"I have tried, Jane. I did not mean to treat her unjustly. She is so wild, so stubborn. If I were to let her have run of the house, we would all be killed in our beds. We are fettered here together by family obligations which have made us hate each other. I have tried not to hate her, but it is difficult, and I have not the heart for forgiveness that you have, Jane."

"You do!" I said, but he continued as if he did not hear me.

"I do not mean to starve her, but she will not eat. If she has been injured, they have been wounds sustained in battles over her safety and the safety of this household. If your saintly cousin thinks he can do better, let him have her. I am tired."

I regarded him silently for a moment. I would not say goodbye tonight. I knew I might go freely tomorrow. I moved closer to him, offered him my handkerchief to dry his tears, but he merely scoffed at my offering.

"You offer me this as a parting gift? No – it is too pure. I would not sully it with my tears of pity and hatred. Go now, if you choose to leave again. Leave me and do not bother with how I suffer."

"Your love would not sully me, sir – but I am unworthy to accept it!"

"You are unworthy – and yet it seems I am the one always being punished – go now, if you mean to leave." Then he was silent, setting his jaw against further conversation.

Is this how it always was to be? I wondered. No matter how close we grew, wife or no, were we always to be separated by distrust and guilt?

"I will be at the teacher's cottage for the night. I will pack my things and tomorrow I will be gone. Please, do not tell St. John. I do not want him to follow me."

He stood silently and walked away without looking at me.

It was not until I reached the cottage and had built up the fire that I noticed the tears on my cheeks. It had been too cold in the garden and I suppose they had frozen before I was aware of the emotion.


	22. Dreams and Destruction

I was desperate for something to distract my mind, so I worked tirelessly into the night, packing my things, cleaning the cottage, removing all traces of my existence there. He should be able to easily forget that I was here. I should endeavor to forget him. I was undisturbed during the night; Mr. Howard was still in the village tending to those marooned by the storm. I collapsed into my narrow bed for the last time at a very late hour, exhausted from my work and the emotions of the day.

I slept soundly at first, but was soon drawn into a kind of queer nightmare. I was at Thornfield, I think. I could not tell where I was; in my dream, I was blind. I felt the stone flags under my feet, the wooden stair banisters under my hands, the bindings of books in the library – but I could not see any of it, though I strained my eyes for a picture. I stubbed my toes in every door way, bumped into walls and started at every sound.

I called out for help from Mr. Rochester in every room and listened closely to hear the sound of his deep baritone respond in kind, sniffed the air for the scent of his cigar. But I could not find him, though I groped and stumbled my way through every room.

I was so tired and about to give up, when I heard her. The sound of her queer laughter, close behind me. I swung round violently, preparing to defend myself against an attack, but there was no one there. The laugh came again, this time from another side, and closer. I groped in that direction – but could find nothing. She laughed again, and again and each time I sought to place her and each time she was not there. The "ghost of Thornfield" had truly become a phantom.

I ran from her. I ran, I tripped, I drug myself towards the direction of hall's main doors, desperate for a way out of the darkness. But the hall itself had turned into a labyrinth and each turn only made me more confused. Exhausted, I cried out for help one last time – "Edward!"

And, as if by some miracle, I heard him answer.

"Jane." It was faint, practically a whisper, but I followed it and called out again.

"Edward?"

"Jane." This time it was stronger, louder. I saw a tiny pinprick of light in the distance.

I followed it, continuing to call out into the darkness – "Edward!" – and listened for his reply – "Jane." I let him lead me closer to the light, which grew by degrees as I ran away from the darkness and her laughter.

"Edward?"

"Jane."

I was approaching dawn, I was sure of it, for the light now was strong and bright. I could see it shining through a crack in the front doors. If I could only reach them, open them further and step out into the morning, I knew I would find him, my blindness would be cured and Bertha would pursue me no longer.

I ignored her laughter, now so incredibly close, and ran to the doors, pulled at the heavy iron handles until they opened into a brilliant, fierce and frightening light –

I awoke, my heart pounding, my body sweaty and overheated from my dream. A dim orange and crimson filled up my distant window, hazy and flickering against the close darkness and I went to it to watch the sunrise.

But this was not dawn, I saw. This was fire, coming from the direction of my former home.

I_ should not have done what I did to him._

_He was fond of that book. It was his favorite thing, I knew, the way my red dress was mine. It was wrong of me to take it from him and destroy it._

_But perhaps I could find him a new book._

_If I brought the pale man a new book, he would forgive me and help me. I could escape and go home, away from this cold English rain._

_When Grace was asleep, I lit a candle I had stolen and hidden away weeks earlier and crept downstairs, shielding the flickering flame from the icy wind that blew through the hall these winter nights. It had been a while since I had been downstairs during the night, and I turned down several wrong hallways before I got to the library._

_It was cold and the tall shelves created long shadows in the moonlight on the floor and walls. I set my candle down but did not know where to begin. I began pulling books off the shelves and flipping through them._

_They did not interest me. Most were just pictures of flowers and animals with names I did not recognize. And why should I? I had never been beyond the walls of this hall. This was my England._

_I caught my foot on something on the ground and nearly fell._

_It was a book, one I had not seen before. I picked it up and opened it._

_Some of the pages were covered in words but others had pictures on them – a vast blue sea, tossing about a ship on one page, endless desert sands on another. Then there was this one – a red sun shown down on a little yellow and green bungalow, thickly surrounded by trees and bouganvilla vines. I ran my fingers greedily over the colors – brilliant greens, pinks and oranges, as if I could transport myself to this place by touch. This was home._

_I decided I would show the pale man this book and my home._

_I take my book and my candle and look for his room. He must be on the hall where all the guests usually stay._

_I tiptoe past her door, careful not to wake her, so she will not alert him or the servants. I walk even softer past his door, where I hear him awake and pacing back and forth. But he must hear something, for he calls out – Jane?_

_Before he can open the door, I scamper faster, down the hall and round the corner. I wait for him to open the door, look around then, go back inside. Then I let out the breath I have been holding and open the door I am leaning against._

_It is his room. I see his pale face outlined against the dark curtains at the window. I approach his bed slowly._

_I once said he was as pale as the moon, and now I imagine, just as cold, for I can see him shivering under his thin blanket. I shiver, too._

_The fire has gone down and I move to the fireplace to light it. Indeed, I see, it looks like it has never been lit. I will tell Grace tomorrow and she will chastise them._

_All I have is my candle and I hope it is enough. I touch the flame to the old pieces of kindling on the hearth and it produces a meager spark. There are some papers on the table and I twist these and lay them on the pile to burn as well. I build it higher and higher and fan the flames with my hands, until heat fills the room and the fire becomes like a great orange beast, roaring with life. When it is tall and wide, spreading up the chimney and unto the hearth, I step back and look at my efforts._

_I am proud, but tired, and the heat makes me wish for a bed and a comfortable chair. I can show him my new book tomorrow. I will show him first thing when he wakes up. I sit in a chair next to him, rest my head on his bed, think of the house and the trees and the hot, wonderful sun._

I threw on my clothes as quickly as possible, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on the growing orange light in the sky.

The walk from the teacher's cottage to the hall, which usually took no more than an hour, seemed to stretch on for days, as I watched the sun rise in the sky, battling with the umber light and black smoke that already resided there, darkening the sky like a death shroud.

As the great hall finally came into view, I saw that the entire top floor was alight and the flames had already eaten their way through most of the battlements. It would surely collapse.

A group of people – a few from nearby farms and a few lower servants – gathered in a huddle nearby, wringing their hands and watching the hall burn. I scanned their faces, muddled and streaked with ash and tears, for someone I knew, but there was no one. They all seemed phantoms, borne out of the smoke. Where was George? Mary? St. John? Where was Mr. Rochester?

"Miss Eyre?" I heard behind me, and I turned to see an elderly couple, their nightclothes singed, their faces dirty. I looked closer and realized it was George and Mary.

I rushed over to them in relief and asked if they were both all right. Mary replied that she was fine, only George had hurt his foot. I helped her lead him to a bare patch of ground and settled them both there, so they might rest until a doctor could be found.

"Where is Mr. Rochester?" I asked, half-dreading the answer.

They were both silent for a moment, and shrunk away from my searching gaze. Then George spoke in a voice raspy from smoke,

"He went back, miss. He went back for her."

I looked back at the conflagration just in time to see the top battlements collapse unto themselves with a great crackling crash. Those around me gasped and screamed; Mary buried her face in George's shoulder and sobbed harder.

I did not stop to grieve. I ran towards the fire, though I knew no one inside the house could possibly still be alive. The front courtyard was completely unapproachable now, filled with a fiery rain of smoke and ash from the collapsed towers. I heard voices calling out for me to stop, but I did not heed them. My throat constricted against the smoke, but I continued on. I ran towards the back of the house to the servants entrance, praying it was still clear. If only I could find him before it was too late.

The entrance to the servants hall was also blocked by flames, but I saw that the kitchen door was still clear and that the back of the hall was not nearly as bad as the front.

"Jane!" A hoarse voice called out my name, but I ignored it and ran towards the door. I had to get to him, had to find him before –

"Jane!" The voice called again, closer and two strong hands gripped my arm, my waist from behind and held me back from the fire. I struggled against by captor.

"Let me go!"

"Jane – he's gone! I'm sorry, he's gone!"


	23. A New Home?

"No!" I yelled, turning towards the apparition to attack him, but he caught my wrists.

"Let me go!"

"Jane!"

Mr. Rochester gazed down at me, his face stern with grief.

He was here. His clothes were smoky and torn, his voice was hoarse and unfamiliar and his face was ash-blackened and dirty, but he was here, alive and whole. I sobbed in relief.

He gathered me in his arms and lead me under one of the trees on the hillside, away from the funeral pyre I had been prepared to throw myself on. We were both coughing and choking on tears and smoke, and shivering in the cold rain that had begun to fall.

I stroked his cheek, wiping away his tears and relishing the feel of his warm, living flesh under my hands.

"Jane. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Jane, I could not save him. I could save her. I could not save them."

I turned my gaze back to the house. The fire was beginning to die as the rain came faster and harder, clearing the air of smoke and his words sank in.

Bertha was dead. St. John was dead. And Thornfield Hall was a blackened ruin.

Unable to gaze on the destruction any longer, I turned my face into Edward's neck and wept. We stood together like that for an age it seemed, watching down below as a home that had seen so much bittersweet happiness and so much pain crumbled into seething ashes.

Very little good ever comes of listening to servants' gossip, but often one cannot help but overhear. I heard from several that the bodies of Bertha and St. John had been recovered not far apart – indeed, in the same room. Knowing Bertha's violent nature and predilection for fire, it was assumed by many that she must have started the blaze in that room as St. John lay there sleeping.

What ill will she might have meant towards my cousin, I do not know. Who can know the workings of the mind, especially a mind composed only of passion, devoid of logic? Perhaps she had misinterpreted St. John's actions towards her; perhaps she simply despised everyone and everything around her.

Mr. Rochester and most of the servants from Thornfield had moved to Ferndean, a hunting lodge my master owned but seldom used. I went with them to help with funeral arrangements. The day after Bertha's burial, St John's body was to be taken back to Moor House for a burial in the graveyard of the church where he had preached. I resolved to go with it and grieve with my cousins.

I did not expect to return to Ferndean and Mr. Rochester.

Secretly, a part of me wished to return – if one can ever return to a time of past innocence. The Thornfield of old, before Bertha and St. John, before the arguments and hidden temptations, had been my home. I had loved it well and it was gone.

As for Mr. Rochester, he was silent and avoided my attempts to talk with him. If I did stay, I was not sure how I would be welcomed by him or if he would welcome me at all.

I felt I must make a new start and find a new home.

Bertha's funeral was a short and simple service in the corner of the churchyard reserved for the Rochester family, with a few prayers and solemn words. Mr. Rochester and myself were the only ones besides the servants in attendance. No one spoke or cried as we all threw our handfuls of dirt unto her grave. We were too weary of drama to weep.

I approached him after the service to say goodbye. We had elected to walk back to Ferndean; it was cold, but the snow on the paths had melted and it was a sunny and still day, devoid of wind.

"I will be leaving for Moor House tomorrow."

"Give my condolences to your cousins, Jane. It is a terrible thing to lose a sibling, especially a beloved one. They were close?"

"They were all they had in this world, for sometime." I swallowed a lump in my throat.

"Your cousins are lucky to have you for company. And you are lucky, too – to have such a welcoming family to go to."

So he did not wish me to stay. We have grown too far apart, I thought and nodded my reply to him. Speech was impossible.

"Your cousins, living alone as they do – they have someone that looks in on them, from time to time?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, glad for a turn in the conversation. "They have often written of another curate, a colleague of St. John's, whom I believe is quite fond of Mary. And Diana is already engaged to a colonel and will marry soon."

"And you, Jane, I suppose, will be left to marry or find your own way?"

"Yes – but I do not think I shall ever marry. I shall use my inheritance, travel perhaps."

The hollowness of my statements sank in. Diana, Mary and I would grieve over the loss of our brother, then they would eventually return to their lives and be happy. I would have to make my happy life from the beginning. I would be independent, comfortable, but ultimately, alone.

"Well, since you can go anywhere, heiress," he said, teasing me as he used to. "Where do you think you shall begin your travels?"

I was dumb. I suddenly had no wish to go anywhere, except to where he was. But he did not want me – he was sending me away.

"I do not know, sir," I said finally.

"There are a great many places in this world, Jane. I believe I have seen most of them – the glittering sands of Arabia, the grand castles of Bavaria, the canals of Venice. Each holds something unique and different. Choose wisely before you settle on a new home."

I nodded again, swallowing my tears. I must make my own way, find a new home.

"You must write, tell me of your travels," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"And– " he stopped, as if unsure of how to proceed, then mumbled something under his breath.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I said--" he grimaced, "I said, that I hoped you might visit with an old friend, if you ever happen to come by this part of the world again. You know you are welcome here."

"Am I?" I could barely conceal the hope in my voice.

"Yes," he said. "In fact, I don't – I wish..." he trailed off again, staring off in the distance, concentrating on something I couldn't see. I waited.

"Jane," he finally said, turning to me, his gaze open and sincere. "I know...I know things...I know I haven't always been – I haven't always acted as I should have. But, when you're here, I feel that it is possible for me to become a better person, because you believe it to be so. I know I have hurt you and I am truly, deeply sorry. I have no right to ask you to return here to stay, but I hope you will not forget me."

So he was not banishing me. He wished me to stay. Could I stay? Could I make a fresh start here and create a home, surrounded by so many ghosts?

He was here, standing in the snow with me, waiting for an answer. He would be there. That was home.

"Ask me to stay," I said.

His brow furrowed in confusion at my response.

"Will – would you stay, Janet?"

"Gladly, sir."


	24. Epilogue

Reader, I stayed. I returned to the teacher's cottage for a while and began lessons again in the spring. Of course, I visited Mr. Rochester often at Ferndean. We spent many a splendid hour together, talking of all sorts of things, and grew even closer than we had been at Thornfield, for there were now no secrets between us.

It was near summer when Mr. Rochester asked me to marry him again. We lived together in Ferndean for a while after the wedding; we would have remained there permanently, I think, but it was closed off and small – too small for our growing family.

Soon after I found out I was with child, Edward and I made the decision to rebuild Thornfield. It was a taxing and arduous process, stirring up old memories and new questions with the turning of the ashes. But it was worth the struggle to see our first-born – the very image of his father – take his first steps among the beginnings of the great hall which would someday be his.

Diana and Mary visit often, with their respective families; we return the visit once a year, to see them and to lay flowers on St. John's grave. Edward, I think, has long forgiven him of his misunderstandings. Indeed, who among us would be so cruel as to hold a grudge against the dead?

There is another grave we pay homage to every year, when the snows have blanketed the roads and trees of the village, making travel impossible. It seems only right to give her flowers in December; I think she would have liked them most then. As I place the red poppies on her frost-covered headstone, I can tell from Edward's face that he thinks them fitting. Even at a distance, the blooms stand out for a while, like a pinprick of blood, until heavier snows come and bury the landscape once more.

_Fin_


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